


Of Dust

by whalebone



Series: darkness, moonrise [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alethiometer Use, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Growing Up Together, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-04-06 05:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalebone/pseuds/whalebone
Summary: You need more than fighting to be Guardian, Chirrut was told on a regular basis.You need to understand Dust, child, and work to create and protect as much as possible.Chirrut and Baze at the Temple of Dust, in the years before the Magisterium once again rises to power.(Part of my His Dark Materials AU, but can be read as a standalone).





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> I am very much working on the next part of _darkness, moonrise_ , but I've also written a bunch of this backstory for Chirrut, Baze, and the Temple.
> 
> -
> 
>  
> 
> _We are awash in Dust, every day, every moment._  
>  _We are buffeted, we are confused, and sometimes,_  
>  _yes, we are consumed._  
>  _When the pond is disturbed, we cannot see within._  
>  _When the pond if still, we can see with clarity._  
>  _In both instances, the water is still there._  
>  _So too Dust is like the water,_  
>  _Whether you see it clearly or not._

Chirrut shimmied up to the top of the wall and lay on his belly to look over the edge. The drop down from the Temple wall was dizzying: the height of the Temple itself, and then the cliff. He wondered how long it would take to fall all the way to the mesa.

“Ages,” said his dæmon, in the form of a spider monkey for the climb. “Ages and ages, so you'd have time to realise it was a stupid idea to jump off in the first place. Then you’d smash all to pieces.”

She swung herself over the side of the wall and climbed down a little way. Chirrut grinned as he watched her; he knew Shyli was a good climber, he wasn't scared that she'd fall, even with the wind blowing hard. They’d climbed up here a few times now. It was one of the last parts of the Temple to explore, except for that secretive locked room right at the top of the tower. Eventually he’d learn how to pick that lock, or climb to the top of the tower and get in through the window, but for now that strange room remained a mystery. Every time he asked a master or a guardian about it, they told him he needed to be patient.

Chirrut hated being patient. It was why he was so bad at meditating, and Master Lam always had to tell him off for fidgeting or daydreaming.

“Chirrut! Get _down_ from there!”

Chirrut sighed at the shrieking voice and pushed himself back, feeling for toe holds in the wall. Shyli scampered back to the top and became a hummingbird, zipping around Chirrut's head as he climbed back down. Master Aylis, the arts master, was watching with his arms folded, a scowl on his face. His tree frog dæmon's expression was very similar, and Chirrut had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“What have we told you about climbing the walls? If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times!”

“Sorry, Master,” Chirrut muttered to his feet, scuffing his toe against the dirt. “I just like looking, that's all.”

Master Aylis sighed. Chirrut knew the masters and guardians all liked him, even when they told him off. He had been at the Temple for almost as long as he could remember, left by his mother when he was only a few years old. He had barely any memories of her at all, though he sometimes wondered if she would come back for him. He wondered that less now; he was nearly eight, almost properly grown up, he didn’t need her to come back. The Temple of Dust was his home.

“Master Hara has been looking for you. She’s taking you for your appointment – but look at you, you’re filthy! Go and change into something clean, please.”

Chirrut pulled a face, and a small smile twitched Master Aylis’s mouth. “Come on, the sooner you go the sooner it’s done. And you can be back in time for movie night.”

Chirrut sighed. “Yes, Master.” He did like movie night, it was true. They were usually kung fu movies, which were Chirrut’s favourites. He was learning a few different martial arts and Master Lam said he was a _natural_. He was going to be the best fighter in the Temple one day, he’d decided. Then one day he’d be Guardian Îmwe. And if that didn’t work out, maybe he could be in kung fu movies. That would be fun. 

_You need more than fighting to be Guardian_ , he was told on a regular basis. _You need to understand Dust, child, and work to create and protect as much as possible._

Chirrut did care about Dust, and he knew that it was important, but it also wasn’t as fun as martial arts.

He and Shyli ran back to their shabby room, racing for no other reason than because they could. Chirrut was quick but Shyli was faster, streaking to the door shaped as a cheetah. She lay on her belly and licked her paws as Chirrut struggled into some clean (well, cleaner) robes. They were a bit short on him now; Master Hara kept complaining that he grew too fast. Chirrut didn’t know what he was meant to do about that. It wasn’t as though he could stop himself growing. He didn’t want to either; he was fed up of being the smallest one in the class.

He left his old robes strewn over the floor for now. Luckily he didn’t have to share a room. There were only a few children who lived at the Temple and Chirrut was the youngest of them, so he got his own room. It meant that he could stay up as long as he wanted, reading adventure stories and manhua under the covers with Shyli as a firefly. Master Yue, the master of the archives, told him he should read more widely, but she still let him borrow the dog-eared copies of _The Legend of the Condor Heroes_ anytime he wanted.

Master Hara was waiting by the front gate, talking to Guardian Tseng. When she saw Chirrut she folded her arms and raised an eyebrow, and her sand fox dæmon showed his teeth a bit. “I told you to meet me at third bell, Îmwe.”

“Sorry, Master Hara!” Chirrut tried to sound contrite, though he knew she wasn’t really cross. She was the master of experimental theology and she was Chirrut’s favourite instructor, after Master Lam. “We were in the gardens and forgot what time it was.”

“You were climbing the walls you mean,” said Guardian Tseng, laughing at Chirrut’s sudden scowl. “Yeah, we saw you. Your dæmon’s definitely settling as a monkey, I’d put money on it.”

Shyli turned into a snub-nosed monkey as they headed out of the gates and screeched back at Guardian Tseng, who just laughed again, shaking his head. 

Chirrut liked going out into the city. Nijedha was so busy and noisy compared to the Temple, full of all sorts of sounds and smells. The market was right outside the Temple gates, full of brightly-coloured stalls selling baked goods, fried noodles, fruit and vegetables, cheap clothing, bolts of fabric. People were sitting at long, crowded food counters, their dæmons curled under tables or perching out of the way on stall roofs. Others were arguing with their companions, laughing, haggling over prices with stall owners. A group of children were playing nearby, kicking a ball back and forth, their dæmons chasing one another and flicking between shapes. 

Chirrut stuck close to Master Hara, not wanting to get lost in the push of the crowds, though he looked back at the children with some longing. He’d quite like to join in. He could probably kick a ball pretty well. He had friends at the Temple of course, but the other children his age all went home to their parents at the end of each day, and the older kids treated him as though he was a nuisance. He and Shyli mostly made up their own games.

People sometimes stopped and bowed to Master Hara as they passed, out of respect for her Temple robes. The Temple of Dust was very important to Nijedha; there was nowhere else like it in the whole world, and Chirrut was very proud of it. Most other kids in Nijedha went to normal schools and only came to the Temple for festivals, but he was a _part_ of it. Most people didn’t know about Dust and how important it was, not like the Temple.

Chirrut couldn’t sit still as they waited at the eye doctor’s office, and Master Hara put a hand on his shoulder to try to calm him. “You don’t need to be nervous,” she said gently.

“I’m not,” Chirrut muttered, but it was a lie. He was nervous. He’d had to see the eye doctor a lot recently, ever since he’d finally plucked up the courage to tell Master Aylis about his headaches, and that sometimes he had shadows all round the edge of his vision. Every time he had an appointment people always started to look worried, and it gave him a hot, sick feeling in his stomach. 

The eye doctor was a kindly little man with a ferret dæmon. He helped Chirrut climb into the big chair and asked him how his headaches had been. Chirrut tried to answer truthfully and politely, kicking his feet a bit out of nerves. Shyli became a mountain cat and he held her tight as the doctor shone lights into his eyes, and she growled so deep and low that he could feel it rumbling beneath his fingertips. 

Master Hara was quiet on the walk home, and Chirrut could tell that the news wasn’t good. She even stopped at a market stall and bought him a steamed bun, which usually wasn’t allowed at all. Chirrut couldn’t really enjoy it though, not when he knew something bad was going on. His stomach was all twisted in knots and he could barely swallow. Shyli took on her big leopard shape, prowling protectively alongside him and baring her teeth at other dæmons.

Back at the Temple he should have gone to meditation, but Master Hara took him to her study instead. She left him there for a few minutes, then returned with Master Aylis in tow. The knot in Chirrut’s stomach got worse, and he could feel his heart beating so fast it almost burst out of his chest. He held Shyli tight and tried to breathe normally.

“Chirrut,” Master Hara began, her voice gentle and sympathetic. “I’m sorry, dear boy, but it’s not good news. The doctor says that your eyesight is probably going to keep getting worse. Now, there are medications we can try, to slow it down, but…” she trailed off, sending an appealing glance at Master Aylis.

“I’m going blind,” Chirrut mumbled, through the lump in his throat. He’d known, deep down, for quite a while.

“I’m afraid so,” said Master Aylis. “I am sorry, Chirrut.”

“When?”

“The doctor isn’t sure, and it depends on how much we can slow it down… but some years, probably. Maybe five, maybe more.”

Five years. He’d be twelve. That wasn’t very old at all. Shyli might not even have settled by then. What if he never got to see what she looked like? 

“Will Shyli still be able to see?”

The Masters exchanged a glance. “Yes,” said Master Hara gently. “Yes, it won’t affect your dæmon, Chirrut. She’ll be able to be your eyes.”

He didn’t want Shyli to be his eyes. She was his _dæmon_ , not a guide dog. He wanted his own eyes. In his lap, Shyli became a polecat and bared her sharp little teeth before burrowing into Chirrut’s robes.

The Masters kept talking, offering reassurances and kindness, but Chirrut barely heard them. There was a buzzing sort of feeling in his ears, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw up or cry or run away. Maybe all three. 

Afterwards, he went and sat in the Temple garden. He wasn’t hungry, and suddenly he didn’t want to watch a movie either. The other Temple kids would all be laughing and noisy, and he couldn’t bear the thought of it. He was usually one of the noisiest, trying to be involved in all the jokes, but he didn’t feel like laughing. He lay in the sparse grass under the stunted, knotted trees of the garden and stared up at the sky, which was slowly turning from blue to pink as the sun dipped behind the Temple walls.

“It’s not fair,” he whispered.

“I know,” said Shyli, turning into a butterfly and landing on his cheek. “But remember what the Masters say: everything happens for a reason.”

“What reason could there be for being _blind_?”

She flapped her beautiful wings. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t mean we can’t do everything we were going to do. We can still be a guardian.”

Chirrut scoffed. “No one’s gonna want a blind guardian. You need to see things to guard them.”

“Hmph. No one can see Dust, but the Temple guards and protects _that_.”

That was true. Though sometimes, when Chirrut was trying to meditate (actually trying, as opposed to daydreaming), he thought he could sense _something_ , like a little glow in his mind, around Shyli and some of the other people. Master Lam sometimes glowed a lot. He hadn’t told anyone else about it though, worried that they’d tell him he was imagining things. But he thought that might be Dust.

“And… and just cos you can’t see doesn’t mean you can’t fight. We’ll work really hard, we’ll be better at fighting than all of them. And we can still learn everything else they want us to learn, we can learn music and experimental theology and – and sculpture, or whatever. I bet there’s loads of blind people who did all those things. There’s that writing you can read with your hands, right? We can learn that. And we can practice sharing our eyes!”

Guardian Tseng had told them that hardly anyone could properly share their dæmon’s senses, but so what? Chirrut and Shyli would just be better than everyone else.

He sat up and scrubbed the tears from his cheeks. Shyli became a wild cat and let him hug her, nuzzling at his face. They sat in the garden and watched the sun slowly dip down below the Temple walls, watched the sky fade to purples and pinks and finally to an inky blue, the stars wheeling overhead. Master Hara had once told him that the stars were so far away that many of them had died before their lights could be seen from Earth. 

Dust came from space, Chirrut knew. Maybe it was from the stars. Maybe if he closed his eyes and tried really hard he’d be able to sense its glow as it fell to Earth. 

* * *

The next year, when Chirrut was eight, there was a fire in the city. Many of the guardians and masters went to help and to offer support to those affected, to help with the injured, to bring clothes and food and blankets to people who needed them. Chirrut and Shyli climbed to the top of the gatewall and watched the black smoke billowing up. Nijedha’s walls protected it from the worst of the desert’s harsh winds, but Chirrut could see that the smoke was being blown all across the city. There were sirens blaring from the streets, from the fire engines and ambulances converging on the scene. The horrible black cloud lingered over the city for hours, even after Chirrut clambered down from the wall in time for dinner.

That evening, Chirrut was called into Master Hara’s study. She was sitting behind her desk looking very tired. There was a smudge on her cheek, and the room smelled very strongly of smoke. 

“Am I in trouble?” Chirrut asked as he sat down. He couldn’t think what he’d done, unless Master Hara had seen him climbing the wall again.

She shook her head, smiling a little. “No, you’re not in trouble. I need you to do something for us, Chirrut.”

He sat up straight, Shyli on his shoulder as a little bird, ready for whatever important task he was being given. 

“The fire today began in a bakery in the East quarter,” Master Hara said, resting one hand on her dæmon’s head. “The baker and his wife both died in the blaze, but their son was at school. He has no other family and no one to take him in, so he has come to live at the Temple. He’s going to share your room, and we need you to look after him and show him around. Can you do that?”

Chirrut did not much like the idea of sharing his room, the only space that was really his, but he supposed he could put up with it for a bit. And maybe the new boy could be his friend. He nodded. “Yes, Master Hara.”

“Good. He’s had something very sad and scary happen, Chirrut, so you need to be kind.”

“I’m kind!” he exclaimed, a little offended. He wasn’t like Avan, who always made fun of people, or Jita, who did mean impressions. 

Master Hara almost smiled, though she still looked tired and sad. “I know you are, but you need to be _especially_ kind.”

“What’s his name? How old is he? Is he going to do lessons with us?”

“His name is Baze, and he’s eight, like you. He won’t start lessons straight away, but if he stays here then yes, he will. Shall we go and see him?”

Chirrut nodded eagerly, jumping from his chair. A new friend! Obviously he would be sad because of what had happened, but Chirrut could cheer him up. He could show him all the good places in the Temple, and teach him some wing chun, and all about Dust.

A second bed had been set up in Chirrut’s room, against the opposite wall. The boy was sitting on the edge of it, wearing old robes that were a bit too big for him. He was taller than Chirrut, and not so skinny, with thick wavy hair and sticking out ears. He was all hunched over, holding his mouse-shaped dæmon in both hands.

“Baze?” Master Hara said gently, kneeling in front of him. Her sand fox dæmon lay down, making herself look small and gentle. “This is Chirrut, who’ll share this room with you. He’s been at the Temple for a long time, he’ll be able to show you where everything is.” Chirrut bounced a little on his toes, and Shyli ruffled her feathers importantly.

The boy nodded, but he didn’t say anything. Master Hara laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll talk a little bit more tomorrow, when you’ve had some rest. You’ll be looked after here, I promise.”

As she left Master Hara rested her hand briefly on Chirrut’s head. “Be kind,” she whispered again, and he nodded urgently. 

When she was gone he sat down on his bed opposite, smiling. “Hello!” he said brightly. “I’m Chirrut.” Shyli turned into a puppy, wagging her tail in eager friendliness.

The boy didn’t look up, curling into himself a little more. “‘Lo,” he said, so quietly that Chirrut almost didn’t hear him. His dæmon hid away inside the cup of his hands.

“My dæmon’s called Shyli. You’re Baze, right? That’s a good name. What’s your dæmon’s name? Don’t worry, the Temple’s really good, you’ll see. The masters and guardians are all really nice and we do lots of fun things. Except chores, but me and Shyli play games to make them more fun. Do you know wing chun? I’m pretty good but I bet you can catch up really quickly. Master Lam’s a good teacher. Master Hara said you were eight, same as me. When’s your birthday?”

He stopped for breath and waited for Baze to answer. Eventually, he spoke in that same quiet voice. “Please stop talking.” He didn’t look up, his wavy hair falling forward so Chirrut couldn’t see his face properly. 

Chirrut mentally kicked himself, and Shyli rolled onto her back. The masters were always telling him that he talked too much. “Sorry. I just wanted to be friends.”

The other boy tightened his grip on his dæmon. “I don’t,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Please just leave me alone.”

For a moment Chirrut was hurt, but he tried not to let it show. “Well, I sleep in here too, so I can’t go anywhere.”

Baze just shrugged, then lay down on top of the covers with his back to Chirrut. Well, fine. Maybe he’d be friendlier tomorrow.

Chirrut woke up when it was pitch black inside and outside, and for a moment was gripped with panic that his eyes had failed him already. Shyli nuzzled his face to reassure him and he realised that it was just the middle of the night. There was a funny noise in the room, and it took him a moment to remember that he wasn’t alone in here any more, and that the noise was coming from the new boy. After a while Chirrut realised that he was crying.

His first instinct was to say something. It was mean to let someone cry without trying to make them feel better. But Baze thought Chirrut was asleep, and he might be embarrassed to know he’d woken someone up. Maybe he preferred to cry on his own. Chirrut agonised about it for long enough that eventually Baze’s sobs faded away to be replaced with the steady breathing of sleep.

Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d be really nice and make Baze feel better.

* * *

Baze didn’t know if he liked it at the Temple. He liked parts of it: he liked the lessons, and the martial arts, and meditating, and the library, and the idea of Dust, which no one had ever mentioned at his old school. He liked some of the masters and guardians, especially Master Yue who let him stay in the library even when he was meant to play outside. 

He didn’t like the food much – it wasn’t like his dad’s food, and it tasted all wrong – and he didn’t like that they’d cut his hair so short, and he didn’t like the other children. They were all really loud, and they thought he was stupid because he didn’t know how to answer questions in lessons and he couldn’t speak any language except Cathay, and they made fun of his ears. The boy who shared his room was the loudest of them all, always making jokes and wanting to be the centre of attention, and sometimes Baze just wanted to put his hands over his ears and tell them all to _shut up_. The other kids’ dæmons all played together or fought one another constantly, all trying to take on the biggest or silliest shapes they could. Zin spent most of her time hiding in his pockets, overwhelmed by everything that was going on. 

Baze wished he could go home. He missed his mum and his dad. He missed his old school, and he missed his books and his bed and the terrible soap operas his mum listened to on the radio. He wanted to cry all the time, but he tried to hold it in so the other kids wouldn’t see. He had bad dreams, usually vague and indistinct but always ending the same way, with his parents disappearing in a whirl of fire and smoke. One time he woke up to find Chirrut next to his bed, hand on his shoulder, narrow face full of concern.

“Are you alright?” the other boy asked.

Baze scrubbed his hand roughly over his face, trying to dash away the tears before Chirrut could see them. His heart was pounding, and Zin growled low in her chest. “I’m fine,” he muttered, trying to sound fine even though his voice was shaking. “Go back to sleep.”

Chirrut opened his mouth as though to say something else, and the last thing Baze wanted to do was talk about anything. He wrenched away from the hand of his shoulder. “Go back to sleep,” he said again. Chirrut frowned, but he did at least go back to his bed. Baze lay back down and turned to face the wall; Zin became a big, fluffy dog so he could hold onto her and bury his face in her fur to hide the tears.

* * *

They had been at the Temple for a month when it happened. Baze was in the courtyard, trying to read a book, and no one paid any attention to him. There were raised voices from the other side of the square, and they sounded more angry than amused.

A tall boy, a few years older than Baze himself, was with a gang of his friends – they were all city kids, ones who attended the Temple school during the day and went home to their families after lessons. The tall boy, who Baze vaguely remembered was called Avan, had a hard, jeering look on his face, his dæmon a snarling fox. The little group had surrounded someone, their hands balled into fists. Baze held very still and watched over the top of his book.

“You’re a cheat, you are,” said Avan. “No way you beat me!”

“I’m just _better_ than you!” snapped a voice from inside the circle of boys, and Baze recognised it as Chirrut’s voice. “Don’t be a bad loser.”

The four boys surged forward, and next thing Baze knew they had grabbed hold of Chirrut by the arms and shoulders. Avan had him by the front of his robes: he was much taller than Chirrut was. The younger boy didn’t seem scared though; he was grinning, though it looked more like he was baring his teeth. His dæmon was a wild dog, her hackles raised, crouched and ready. 

“You want to say that again?” Avan said, his voice dangerous. His friends sniggered.

“You’re a bad loser,” Chirrut repeated, and promptly hooked one foot around Avan’s knee and knocked him to the dirt. It was only a momentary victory: Avan’s dæmon leapt at Chirrut’s, bowling her to the ground, and then the other boys were piling in and it was four against one.

Something hot and angry curled in Baze’s stomach, and he was on his feet before he could really think about it. Four against one, and all because Chirrut had beaten the older boy in a spar! Baze hated it when things weren’t fair. Well, he may be younger than the bullies, but he was big for his age and he wasn’t scared about hitting someone if they deserved it. Zin, who had been on his shoulder as a moth, suddenly leapt forward in the form of a lioness, the biggest form she could take. 

“Get off him!” Baze yelled, grabbing Avan and pulling him away from Chirrut. Avan, taken off guard, fell pretty easily and Baze gave him a solid kick for good measure. Zin held his dæmon down, snarling. Another boy hit Baze then, hard, and he tasted blood but he didn’t especially care. He tackled the boy around the waist and pinned him to the ground: the other kid was taller but Baze had always been on the hefty side and now he could use that to his advantage.

“ _What_ is going on here?” 

They all froze, then scrambled to their feet as Master Aylis strode across the courtyard, robes billowing, a scowl on his face.

“We _do not_ teach you martial arts for you to use them in a brawl!” he exclaimed, hands on his hips. “ _Explain_ yourselves.” 

There was some general muttering and shuffling of feet. Baze’s ears were burning, and Zin, now puppy-formed, hid behind his ankles with her tail between her legs.

“Avan called me a cheat,” Chirrut muttered eventually. “Cos I beat him earlier.”

“He did cheat,” Avan said hotly. “He’s just a little kid, and he can’t even see properly! No way he won fairly.”

“Shut your mouth, or I’ll shut it for you!” 

“That is _enough_ , Îmwe. Avan Tan, I am ashamed. You do not accuse others of cheating, and you will accept defeat with some grace. If you have a problem with another student, you talk to one of the masters. We _do not_ solve problems with violence.”

Avan muttered something mutinously to his feet.

“And you, Malbus, why are you involved? I’d rather hoped you were better behaved than this.”

Baze’s face burned. He should have stayed out of it. Now he’d be in trouble, maybe they’d even tell him to leave and not come back. They’d taken him in when he had nowhere to go, and now—

“He helped me,” said Chirrut fiercely. “He saw it wasn’t a fair fight and he pulled Avan off me, then Bolen hit him. It’s not Baze’s fault.”

Shocked, Baze had to look up from his feet. Chirrut was staring up at Master Aylis in a determined sort of way, his dæmon a cat with lashing tail. Master Aylis considered them all for a moment, and then sighed.

“Right,” he said. “You four—” he pointed at Avan and his friends, “will be on lunchtime kitchen duty for the next week. And I will be speaking to your parents. You two—” he turned to Chirrut and Baze – “will sweep and mop the practice room after classes tomorrow. And do not let me catch any of you _street fighting_ again, or Master Lam will hear about it. Do I make myself clear?”

There was a muttered chorus of, “Yes, Master Aylis,” and he swept away. Avan glared at Chirrut and Baze.

“Lucky big ears was here to help you, shrimp,” Avan said, shoving Chirrut’s shoulder as he walked past.

“Ugh,” said Chirrut when they’d gone. “He really needs to get better insults.” He turned to Baze. “Thanks,” he said, “but you didn’t need to help. I was fine.”

Baze stared at him. He had a bruise blooming across one cheek, and his lip was bleeding. “You didn’t _look_ fine.”

“Well I was. I can take them, they’re rubbish.”

The anger that had stirred in Baze’s stomach had faded, replaced with embarrassment and shame. “Fine,” he muttered. “I don’t know why I helped anyway.”

He went and picked up his abandoned book, which was a bit dusty. Hopefully Master Yue wouldn’t mind too much. Zin jumped into his arms and became a small snake, winding herself around his wrist and tucking her head under his sleeve in embarrassment. His face hurt where he’d been hit by Avan’s crony, and when he touched his mouth his fingers came away bloody. He thought about what his mum would say if she found out he’d got into a fight, how disappointed she’d be, and his stomach hurt a bit.

He hid in the library for a while, and Master Yue didn’t ask about his bruised face, though she did make him a cup of tea and gave him a handkerchief to wipe away the blood. Baze helped her with the books, stacking the lower shelves that she had trouble with because of her bad knees, and tried to ignore the hurt in his chest whenever he thought about Chirrut telling him he hadn’t needed to help. 

“Forget it,” Zin told him, monkey-formed so she could help with the books. “We don’t need to be friends with any of them.”

“Yeah...” Baze had never been good at making friends. Even before the fire, when he’d been happy, he had never really known how to talk to other children. Now it seemed as impossible as flying. But underneath all his grief and anger he felt desperately lonely; he just wanted someone to talk to, or to spend time with, who didn’t mind that he didn’t know what to say or that his ears were too big. Master Yue was nice, but she was an old lady who was just being kind to a sad kid who liked books. And obviously he had Zin, but it was a bit pathetic to only have your dæmon as a friend. It wasn’t as though Zin had any choice in the matter.

That night Baze had one of his now recurring nightmares, of his parents being swallowed by a burning darkness while he struggled towards them, unable to help. He woke, shaking and breathing hard, and held Zin tight to his chest, their hearts racing together.

“Just a dream,” Zin murmured, nuzzling at his face. Chirrut, thankfully, was still breathing steadily in the next bed. They hadn’t spoken that evening, though at one point Baze had caught Chirrut watching him thoughtfully. He’d ignored him, and eventually Chirrut had turned to the wall and gone to sleep.

Baze didn’t want to go back to bed, scared of falling back into the nightmare. Instead, he got up and pulled on the old coat and shoes he’d been given, and crept out of the door. He was quietly amazed at his own daring; it had never explicitly been said, but he didn’t think he would be allowed to be out of bed in the middle of the night.

The Temple was eerie at night. He crept as quietly as possible down the steps to the kitchen courtyard, Zin padding beside him as a cat. Across the courtyard, through a tall archway, up winding staircase – pausing for a moment to duck behind a wall, heart in his mouth, as a Guardian strode towards the gate – and finally reaching the garden. It wasn’t much of a garden, as so few things grew in Nijedha’s cold, dry climate, but Baze liked it all the same. He sat back against the twisted tree trunk and Zin clambered into his lap to keep him warm. Together, they looked up at the clear sky, counting the stars, and slowly the shreds of the nightmare faded away.

“There you are!”

Baze startled, knocking his head against the trunk of the tree. Chirrut had appeared from seemingly nowhere, his arms folded over his skinny chest, his dæmon bird-formed on his shoulder.

“What?” 

“I woke up and you were gone. So I came to look for you.”

Baze glared at him. Zin became a hamster and buried inside his coat. “Why?”

Chirrut rolled his eyes and groaned dramatically. “ _Ugh_. Because you helped me out today, and I know you don’t want to get in trouble because you’re _good_ , and I thought you might want to be friends, even though you’ve just been really boring and grumpy since you got here.”

Baze stared at him, trying to sort out all those conflicting things. When he finally found his voice, what came out was, “I’m not grumpy.”

Chirrut actually laughed. “Yes you are! You never smile or laugh at anything!”

“I do when there’s something to smile about.”

“Hmph.” Chirrut flung himself to the ground next to Baze. He wasn’t wearing a coat or any shoes, but he didn’t seem to be cold. “I’m funny. You’re just boring.”

“Probably,” he shrugged. “So you don’t want to be friends.”

“We should be friends. I can show you how not to be boring. We have to share a room anyway, we may as well be friends. And I can show you how to fight better.”

“I’m fine.”

Chirrut scoffed. “No you’re not. You have bad dreams all the time, and you hide in the library when you’re sad.”

Baze felt his ears burn, shame twisting in his stomach. He’d thought he’d been hiding all of that pretty well.

“It’s alright. Your parents died, it’s okay that you’re sad.” Baze didn’t have a reply to that, and they sat in silence for a bit until Chirrut, who seemed incapable of being quiet, spoke again. “I’ve been here nearly all my life. My mum left me here when I was three. I don’t know why – sometimes I pretend she’s famous, or an adventurer or something, and that’s why she’s not around.”

“My mum and dad were bakers,” Baze said.

“Can you bake?”

“A bit. I was going to learn properly when I was older.” He drew a vague pattern in the dirt, not looking at Chirrut. 

“Well that’s okay, you can still learn. I bet old Fazma in the kitchen will teach you.”

Baze didn’t want to learn any more, but he didn't want to tell Chirrut that. “Maybe."

“Why is your dæmon always hiding?”

He shrugged, putting a hand over the lump that was Zin. She'd always been more retiring than other children's dæmons seemed to be. “She’s shy.”

“You’re shy, you mean. She was good earlier though, she got really big! Avan didn’t know what to do! I don’t think Shyli can get that big.”

“Bet I can,” said his dæmon from where she was perched in the tree branches above them. “I just don’t need to.”

“Prove it,” Chirrut challenged, and his dæmon flapped down from the tree before turning into a lionness. She wasn’t as big as Zin had been, her build lean and muscular, but she still looked fierce. She padded over and pushed her big golden head against Chirrut’s chest, knocking him over and making him laugh. Zin crept out of Baze’s coat to watch.

“Come on,” said Chirrut’s dæmon, switching from lioness to shar-pei and wagging her tail, tongue lolling. Zin looked at Baze, who felt a little helpless under the attention of Chirrut and his dæmon. It was like being under a bright spotlight. After a moment of hesitation Zin jumped to the ground and turned into a chow chow, approaching Shyli a little tentatively. The two dæmons touched noses, and Shyli immediately pounced, rolling Zin to the ground. 

“You do smile!” Chirrut said, and Baze realised that it was true. Zin wrestled with Shyli, and her playfulness seeped into Baze. He found himself smiling for the first time in weeks. 

“I suppose,” he said.

“Almost distracts from your ears,” said Chirrut and Baze, daringly, pushed his shoulder. Chirrut grinned.

Their dæmons flopped down at their feet and Shyli put her head on Zin’s neck in an affectionate manner. To his horror, Baze felt tears press against the back of his eyes, and he tried to rub them away discreetly. If Chirrut noticed he didn’t say anything. Instead he said, quite bluntly, “I’m going blind.”

“You’re – what?”

“I’m going blind. It’ll be a few years, but eventually I won’t be able to see at all.” He waved a hand in front of his eyes in demonstration. “The eye doctor said they can’t stop it. So… there. I know the bad thing that happened to you, and now you know the bad thing happening to me.”

Baze had no idea what to say. “That’s horrible.”

Chirrut shrugged, though there was something sad and lost in his face. “Yeah,” he said. “And so is what happened to you. So we should be friends, so there's something good too.”

Baze hadn't thought about it that way. He shuffled closer to Chirrut so their shoulders touched. At their feet Shyli licked Zin's ears. “Okay,” he said. “Let's be friends.”

* * *

The masters did not really understand how, overnight, Chirrut and the new boy had become almost inseparable, but they were glad of it. Chirrut was a boisterous boy who needed friends his own age, and young Baze needed someone to make him smile after everything that had happened.

And he did smile more, eventually. Chirrut soon learned that once he got through Baze’s wall of shyness his new friend was very funny, and they made each other laugh all the time, even without meaning to. Baze also told really good stories, and they would stay up late into the night, hiding under the covers and talking, sharing Chirrut’s favourite manhua and making up their own tales. 

Baze slowly began to feel more at home at the Temple, and sometimes he even forgot his sadness. Then he would feel guilty for forgetting, but Chirrut always cheered him up again. Chirrut seemed to know so much about _everything_ , and Baze found he even enjoyed some of his silly games. And Chirrut teased all the time, but he was never mean, and Baze learned to tease in return. When he had nightmares now Chirrut would steal into bed with him and hug him until he felt better, and sometimes when Chirrut was having a bad day with his eyes Baze would distract him with stories or extra wing chun practice. Chirrut usually felt better after he’d beaten Baze at something.

“We’ll both be guardians,” Chirrut whispered one night, his face lit up by Shyli’s firefly form as they hid under the covers.

“Yeah, the best guardians the Temple ever had!” Baze grinned, holding a fist in front of his face in a mock fighting pose.

As far as Chirrut was concerned, it was that simple. He might lose his sight, but he’d still be a guardian, and Baze would be a guardian too, and they’d be best friends forever. Easy as that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Cathay - China / Chinese (the same word used for the country, the nationality, and the language)
> 
> Experimental theology - physics
> 
> The opening poem is lightly adapted from Greg Rucka's excellent "Guardians of the Whills" tie-in novel.


	2. Settling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chirrut and Baze explore, and make a Discovery.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _From this moment I step into my next._  
>  _From this place I step into my next._  
>  _From this life I step into my next._  
>  _For I am of Dust,_  
>  _For ever and for ever._

The lock in the top tower was proving much more difficult to pick than Chirrut had anticipated. He had made an older student teach him how to pick locks a few weeks ago, after making a bet about who could walk further on their hands. Chirrut had hand-walked all the way from the garden to the art room, up and down four staircases, and crowed smugly about it for days. Maira had been a good sport about losing, and she had willingly spent a few hours showing him how to use a hairpin to pick locks. He had since worked his way through every lock he could find, despite Baze’s constant complaining that they’d get into trouble. Baze was his lookout; however much he complained he never actually said no, and Chirrut thought he secretly enjoyed it.

The last lock, the one that was the ultimate goal of the entire enterprise, was to the mysterious room at the top of the tallest tower, and it was proving extremely difficult. Chirrut swore as his fingers slipped yet again. 

“Just leave it, Chirrut. Master Hara said we’ll learn what’s in there one day, it doesn’t have to be _now_.” Baze had his hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. Zin was fussing around his feet in rabbit form.

“I want to know,” Chirrut insisted, squinting at the lock again. Shyli was a firefly, lighting the keyhole for him. His eyes were quite bad in low-light and darkness now, and it was a moonless night. “Besides, I might not be able to see what’s in here by the time they decide I’m ready.”

Baze heaved one of his gusty sights that was too big for him. He sounded like an old man. But he would stay, Chirrut knew. Besides, Baze was just as curious as he was about what was in this room, and had done his fair share of speculating about it.

“Zin, stop fussing. Go and be an owl or something, keep watch.” 

Chirrut heard Zin grumble, but then a fluttery sound as she flapped away. She couldn’t go far, of course; she and Baze had a short range, shorter than Chirrut and Shyli, but she should be able to spot any patrolling guardians. 

Baze had been at the Temple for over two years. Having a best friend was _brilliant_. It wasn’t just Chirrut and Shyli any more: it was Chirrut and Shyli and Baze and Zin, and everything was much more fun. Baze could be a stick-in-the-mud sometimes - he hated getting into trouble - but the masters _loved_ him, so he never got into that much trouble. He was clever and hard-working and he loved all his lessons and did extra meditation practice and spent far too long in the library. He’d been behind in lots of lessons when he arrived, since his old school hadn’t taught English or proper music or about Dust, but now he was practically top of the class in everything. He even practiced his piano scales, much to the delight of Master Kim. But he was funny and kind and always listened to Chirrut and went along with all of his plans, so Chirrut thought it was okay if he was a bit boring sometimes too.

Chirrut was still better at wing chun, and at languages, and he and Shyli were getting loads better at sharing their senses, and could do it for two whole minutes already. Baze had never been able to do that with Zin, no matter how hard he tried. Chirrut thought it was a good thing that Baze wasn’t the best at everything, otherwise he might get big-headed.

“C’mon Chirrut, it’s cold up here,” Baze muttered after a few more minutes. Chirrut ignored him, frowning in concentration as he worked the pin in the lock. It was cold, the wind bitter, but it was _always_ cold in Nijedha, so there was no point complaining about it. You may as well complain about the sun setting in the evening.

Finally, there was a satisfying _click_ and Chirrut felt the lock give. 

“Yes!” he whispered, grinning hugely. He pushed at the huge brass handle, and the door slid open, scuffing slightly against the flagged stone floor inside.

“What if there’s an alarm?” Baze asked worriedly, appearing at his shoulder and peering into the dark, windowless room.

Chirrut rolled his eyes. “It’ll be fine.” To prove his point, Shyli zipped into the room. Chirrut held his breath – what if the room _was_ alarmed? – but nothing happened. He followed Shyli in, her soft glow showing the stone floor and round stone walls. Baze followed behind, pushing the door closed. Zin became a firefly too, and their dæmons’ joint light was enough to show that the room was almost empty.

“There’s not much here,” said Baze, sounding confused. They’d spent hours coming up with outlandish theories about this room: was it full of treasure? Was there a dangerous prisoner? A powerful weapon? A secret passageway?

The floor was dusty, as though the place didn’t get swept often, and it made Baze sneeze. Shyli flew up as high as she could, until it tugged uncomfortably at Chirrut’s heart, then she came swooping back. 

The only thing in the room was a stone plinth in the middle, almost as tall as Chirrut was. The two boys approached it slowly, their breathing sounding very loud in the small, dark room. The plinth seemed to be carved of the same rough stone as the room itself, though when Shyli landed on it Chirrut saw a flash of an orangey colour.

“Electrum,” said Baze softly, running his fingers over the rim of the plinth. Chirrut had to stand on tiptoe to see. Around the rim were pieces of electrum, embedded into the stone, that shone in the light of the two firefly-shaped dæmons. There were electrum deposits in the caves under the Temple, which were very important because they attracted lots and lots of Dust. Master Hara had shown them some specially developed photograms in class once, to show them how the thick clouds of golden Dust that gathered around the electrum.

In the middle of the plinth was a red velvet pillow, a little worn and faded looking. Standing higher on his toes Chirrut leaned across the plinth and tugged the pillow towards them. Lying on top of it was something like a small golden clock, gleaming in the faint light.

“What’s _that_?” Baze whispered. 

“Why do they need a secret clock?” Zin asked, landing on the pillow to get a closer look.

“I think it’s real gold,” said Shyli, doing the same. “Must be valuable!”

“The masters wouldn’t keep something just because it’s valuable,” said Baze. Even with the heavy shadows Chirrut could see a frown on his round face. “If you sold something made all of gold they could help loads of people.” The Temple was committed to charity, helping the poor and needy all around Nijedha. Baze was right; they would never keep something valuable without good reason. 

Chirrut reached out for the thing, ignoring Baze’s hiss of disapproval. It was heavier than it looked, and he cradled it carefully in both hands. It wasn’t a clock, he saw, though it had hands like one. Three short, pointed ones, and one long one that wavered everywhere. There were three dials around the outside. He twisted one, and a hand turned with a satisfying soft click.

“Put it back,” Baze insisted.

“I’m just looking,” said Chirrut, mesmerised by the thing. Baze shuffled closer so he could look at it too.

“It’s pretty,” he said. “What do you think all those pictures are?”

Chirrut squinted, struggling to make out the detail in the dim light. Shyli and Zin settled on the face of the golden instrument, lighting it up a little.

“Look,” said Baze, pointing. “There’s a horse, and an elephant, and a sword, and a lady...” 

The pictures were delicately drawn, tiny and precise. Chirrut turned the instrument in his hands so he could see all of them. He realised that the three shorter hands could all be turned around to point at different images, though the fourth one just waved vaguely.

“What is it?” he wondered out loud. “What’s it for?”

Baze shrugged, then said, “I dunno.” He was always doing that now, making sure he actually said things instead of just making gestures, and Chirrut loved him a little bit for it.

“Must be important.” Zin crept over the face of the instrument, and the gold shone bright under her glow. “Otherwise they wouldn’t lock it up here and keep it secret.”

Chirrut turned the dials thoughtfully, watching the way the hands moved. The action was smooth, and when the hands were in place their fine tips pointed precisely to the centre of each image. The fourth hand had been moving erratically, but as he watched it seemed to move with more purpose, sweeping from image to image. Why it was doing it Chirrut couldn’t say, but it was almost hypnotic to watch. Shyli gazed at it too, and Chirrut felt himself sinking into a calm, peaceful state not dissimilar to meditation. 

“Chirrut. Chirrut, we should go. _Chirrut_.”

He pulled himself out of his reverie with some effort, blinking hard. He tore his gaze from the needle, now back to bouncing haphazardly around the dial, and looked at Baze’s shadowy face.

“I heard voices,” Baze whispered. “We need to go back to bed.”

Chirrut felt hugely reluctant to leave the strange instrument. It was important, he was sure of it, and it had been _doing_ something. But now that Baze had mentioned it he realised that he could hear voices too; the guardians on duty must be nearby. He placed the instrument back on its cushion and shoved the cushion back to the middle of the plinth. They crept out of the tower, and Baze fidgeted impatiently as Chirrut used the hairpin to carefully relock the door.

They snuck back across the Temple, dæmons padding along as silent cats. They had to slip into an empty classroom at one point to avoid Guardian Rena, who must have heard something. Her sable dæmon crept back along the corridor, ears twitching, but then seemed to decide that there was nothing there and scampered back to his human. Finally they climbed the last set of stairs to their small room.

Baze fell asleep almost immediately, hidden under the blankets with Zin as a big fluffy dog for warmth. Shyli became a beech marten and curled herself on Chirrut’s pillow. He felt wide awake, burning with curiosity. How could Baze just go straight to sleep?

“What do you think that thing was?” he murmured to his dæmon.

“Don’t know. It felt like it was doing something though, when we were holding it.”

He nodded. Shyli’s eyes gleamed a little in the moonlight that crept through a crack in the ragged curtains. “It was like I could control it, or something. If we’d had a bit longer…”

“Be risky to try again.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

She yawned, showing sharp little teeth. “You’ve seen it now. We know what’s in the room. They’ll show us one day, Master Hara said so.”

“But what if it’s too late then?” he asked, very softly. He usually tried to stay positive about his deteriorating vision, making jokes and pretending it didn’t bother him too much. He sometimes let Baze see that he wasn’t always alright, but he knew that Baze worried about him, so he tried to keep a brave face. Shyli, of course, knew how frightened he really was about the creeping darkness. She nuzzled at him.

“I’ll be able to see it,” she murmured. “And you can see through me.”

It took him a long time to fall asleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the odd golden instrument, wanting to go back and try it again, see if he could make that dancing fourth hand move, if he could work out what it was for. When he did sleep, it was to dream of following a golden serpent towards a setting sun.

* * *

Baze was just as intrigued as Chirrut by the strange clock-thing, though admittedly less eager to break into the tower room again. Usually he would have asked one of the masters about it, but of course he wasn’t going to admit that they had broken into the secret tower. He had gotten into plenty of trouble at the Temple over the last couple of years – usually after getting involved with one of Chirrut’s schemes – but this time it felt different. The golden clock-thing was important and valuable, obviously, and he felt like he’d really broken the masters’ trust by finding it before they decided he was ready to know about it. They had, after all, taken him in, given him shelter and safety and friends and an education. The least he could do was follow their rules.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about the thing. He wasn’t going to break into the tower again, no matter how much Chirrut kept whispering about it, but he dwelt on it nonetheless. 

Life at the Temple was busy, with lessons and training and alms collections and chores, and before long two months had gone by since the night they had broken into the tower. Baze had stopped thinking about it quite so much, his mind taken up with everything else that was going on. He was meant to take his first _duan_ soon, and he wanted to do well. Chirrut had already taken his and was particularly unhelpful, just telling Baze “you’ll be _fine_ ” whenever he asked about it.

It was a Temple pilgrim who made Baze think about the strange instrument again. The Temple took in pilgrims all the time, and in return the pilgrims had to create as much Dust as possible. They would create art, or make music, or tell stories, or teach, or dedicate themselves to learning something new, all things that attracted more and more Dust. On this particular day, Baze was taking care of one of the city kids, a little girl called Kaya, while her heavily pregnant mother took some time to herself for worship and meditation. The Gimm family were all Disciples of the Temple and visited regularly. Chirrut was usually better at making up games to play with the children, but Master Lam had roped him into helping with some classes, so Baze was looking after Kaya on his own.

Kaya was four years old and very energetic, so Baze had taken her to the garden and taught her some really easy wing chun moves to try and tire her out. It was very funny to see her punch her chubby fists and kick her little legs, face screwed up in concentration, and he pretended to let her hit him and knock him over, which made her giggle. Zin, for her part, let Kaya’s puppy-shaped dæmon pounce all over her, wagging her tail, and ran in short circles so he could chase her excitedly. 

“Alright,” Baze said, when Kaya had ‘knocked him down’ yet again and put her foot on his chest, a grin on her grubby face. “Let me up. How about we see if Chirrut’s finished?”

“Yeah!” Kaya clapped her hands. Chirrut was learning sleight-of-hand magic tricks, and last time Kaya had seen him he had pretended to pull a coin from her ear. She let Baze stand up, then grabbed his hand to tow him across the main courtyard, her dæmon zipping along beside her as a hummingbird. 

On the other side of the courtyard, talking to a group of Temple children, was one of the new pilgrims. She was a white lady with grey hair and a lined face and she must have been even older than Master Yue. Her marmot dæmon sat placidly by her feet as she nodded interestedly at whatever the children were chattering about.

“Would you like to hear a story?” she was saying as they passed, and Kaya stopped dead with a small gasp.

“Yes, yes please!” some of the children chorused, already drawing nearer and sitting themselves on the dusty ground.

“Ooh!” Kaya tugged at Baze’s hand. “I want to hear a story! Can we?”

Privately Baze was pleased. He liked hearing all the pilgrims’ stories, especially from those who came from different countries that were so unlike Cathay. He was a bit shy of most of the pilgrims, especially those who didn’t speak much Cathay. Chirrut, bright and confident, always wanted to talk to them and practice his language skills, but Baze was always nervous about messing up so he hung back. But he loved hearing the stories.

One of the older children ran to a nearby classroom and got the old lady a chair, and everybody sat on the floor around her. Kaya, beaming, plonked herself in Baze’s lap and hugged her dæmon to her in the form of a big fluffy rabbit. Zin perched on Baze’s shoulder as a sparrow, her head cocked in interest.

The old lady smiled at them all, clasping her hands in her lap. Her marmot dæmon regarded them with a solemn expression. “Tell me,” the old lady began, her Cathay strongly accented but relatively fluent, “has anyone here ever heard of somebody called Lyra Belacqua?”

Everybody shook their heads, Baze included. The old lady’s smile broadened.

“Lyra Belacqua was a Brytish experimental theologian who studied Dust. I am sure your Temple’s excellent library has some of her books, though you might not read them until you’re a bit older. But this story is not about that. Before she was a grown-up and an experimental theologian, Lyra was a clever, rebellious girl who had many grand adventures with her dæmon, Pantalaimon. When she was twelve years old, she went on a great journey to the farthest North, because her best friend Roger had been kidnapped by the king of the armoured bears, who wanted him to be his dæmon—”

It was a magnificent story, full of danger and excitement. Lyra was clever and brave, and on her journey to find her friend she rescued a witch who was in terrible danger. Kaya was wide-eyed as the old lady told them about the daring rescue, how Lyra and her dæmon had chased away the cliff-ghasts trying to attack the injured witch. As thanks, the witch gave Lyra a strange object.

“It was very beautiful, like a large compass made of gold. Lyra thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It had three hands, like a clock, and they could be moved to point to the symbols that decorated all around the edge. _’This is a symbol reader,’_ said the beautiful witch.” Baze’s heart was suddenly pounding very fast, and Zin fluttered her wings, flipping from sparrow to cockatiel to chaffinch in quick succession.

The old lady paused for a moment, considering her rapt audience. “Now, I do not know what the Cathay word is, but in English the instrument is called an ‘alethiometer’. That means ‘truth measure’. The symbols on it all had different meanings, and if you knew how to read it you could ask it questions, and it would tell you the real, true answer. _’Not just anybody can read it,’_ the witch told Lyra. _’You have to be clever, and thoughtful, and have an open-mind. Most people need to use books to work out what it says.’_ But Lyra, she picked up the symbol reader and she turned the hands to the right symbols to ask it how to rescue her friend Roger. And the fourth hand of the symbol reader danced all around the symbols, and as Lyra watched she realised she could understand what it was saying. She watched and watched, and kept her mind open, and slowly she learnt the answer. _You must trick the bear king._ And the witch was amazed at her skill.”

The rest of the story was just as exciting, with a fantastic battle between the witches and the bear king, and a thrilling escape, but Baze barely heard it. Kaya clapped her hands and gasped at all the right moments, but he couldn’t wait until the story was done so he could find Chirrut and tell him. The story was made-up, of course, but the symbol reader, the alethiometer, was real. Zin was quivering with impatience on his shoulder.

* * *

_Alethiometer_ , thought Chirrut, turning the word over in his mind. _Alethiometer_. It was a nice word, if a bit hard to say. Baze, who sometimes struggled to pronounce English words properly, had had to say it very slowly to get all the letters right. But now they knew what it did, and Chirrut was determined to see it again.

Baze had protested, though more weakly than before. He was curious too, even moreso after hearing the story, so Chirrut knew he'd come along.

When the midnight bells rang out across the city, Chirrut threw back his covers and scrambled out of bed. “Come on,” he hissed at Baze, poking him where he was still huddled under the blankets. Baze grumbled but sat up, rubbing at his eyes, his thick wavy hair sticking out in every direction.

It was quicker picking the lock this time, now he’d done it once before. His heart was leaping in his chest as he pushed the door open. As before, Shyli and Zin flitted about as fireflies, illuminating the dark circular room. The alethiometer sat on its faded cushion, gleaming beautifully gold.

“How do you know what the symbols mean?” Baze whispered as Chirrut picked it up.

“Dunno.” He turned it in his hands, studying them. “I s’pose it’s like… the hourglass would mean time, right? And the sun would be daytime…” He turned the dials on the outside, enjoying the smooth, satisfying way the three hands clicked into place. “We should try and ask it something.”

Baze bit his lip. “Like what?”

“Like, is Master Aylis’s hair real?”

That made Baze laugh. “We _know_ it’s not real.”

What did Chirrut want to know? He considered the symbols, and turned one hand to the picture of the lady. Another he turned to the globe. The third to the compass. Baze watched him, a question in his eyes. Shyli landed on Chirrut’s wrist as he gazed at the alethiometer, making sure it was lit enough for his bad eyes to see it.

He had to keep an open mind, according to the story. He had to watch the fourth needle jump around and apparently the answers would become clear. 

“Chirrut?” Baze whispered.

“Ssh.” He watched the long needle, but it was waving vaguely all around the face of the instrument. Impatience clawed at his throat, but he tried to breathe through it, remembering how Master Lam told him to master his breathing. Focused on the symbols he’d picked out: the lady, for his mother. The globe, for an unknown place. The compass, for finding your way. _Where is my mother?_ He hoped that was the right way to do it.

As he held that question in his mind, thinking about the symbols, he felt himself sinking into that steady calm of meditation, similar to when he shared his senses with Shyli. The fourth hand began to move with more purpose, touching at the hourglass symbol.

“I _thought_ someone was up here,” said a voice, and Chirrut almost dropped the alethiometer in shock. Baze jumped, and Zin turned into a bat, flapping around in panic. Both boys spun to the door, where Guardian Tseng was leaning on his staff, silhouetted against the night sky.

A million excuses leapt to Chirrut’s mind, each one more unbelievable than the last. There wasn’t really any way to explain why they were in the forbidden locked room at one in the morning. 

“Should have guessed it was you, Îmwe,” said Guardian Tseng. He didn’t sound too cross. He strode across the room, macaw dæmon on his shoulder, and took the alethiometer from Chirrut’s hands. “Couldn’t just leave things alone, eh?”

“Sorry, Guardian Tseng,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” said Baze in his most sheepish voice, Zin now huddled against his ankles as a big-eyed puppy. Shyli stayed as a firefly on Chirrut’s shoulder. “We’re really sorry.”

Guardian Tseng sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with a bit of curiosity, boys. But you’ve got to exercise a bit of thought. I know Master Hara already told you you’d be told about this when the time was right. Did you think you knew better than the masters, hm?”

Hot shame bubbled in Chirrut’s stomach. Beside him Baze hung his head. “No,” said Chirrut. “We just… wanted to know what was in here.” He hesitated, then threw caution to the winds. “It was telling me something.”

Guardian Tseng’s craggy face was impassive, but Chirrut saw the way his dæmon ruffled her bright feathers. “That’s not really possible, Îmwe.”

Chirrut stuck his chin out. “But it _was_. We know what it is, Guardian Tseng, we know it’s an ale– ally– a truth-teller. And it was telling me something.”

Guardian Tseng heaved a huge sigh, like the start of an avalanche, and squatted down to their level. “It takes years and years of study to read the alethiometer, Chirrut. The masters spend hours with the Books of Reading to understand what it says. You might have thought it was telling you something, but no one in over a hundred years has been able to read it without study.”

Chirrut scowled. It _had_ been telling him something and he knew it.

“Now, how about you boys go back to bed, and I won’t tell the masters I caught you up here?” His deep-set eyes twinkled. “And if I catch you again, I’ll throw you off the top of the tower. That goes for you too, Malbus. I know this wasn’t your idea—” a sharp glance at Chirrut— “but maybe don’t follow this little fool everywhere.”

Baze shuffled and muttered, “Yes, Guardian Tseng.” Chirrut stuck his tongue out at him.

“The alethiometer is very precious,” Guardian Tseng said seriously. “There’s only three in all the world. If you want to be guardians, boys, you need to respect that. Understand?”

“Yes, Guardian Tseng.”

“Good. Now get moving.”

Relieved to have avoided punishment, they fled.

“It _was_ telling me something,” Chirrut insisted to Baze as they got back into bed. “It _was_.”

“I believe you,” said Baze, in that uncomplicated way he had, and Chirrut felt a little bit better. “What did you ask it?”

He hesitated for a moment. “I asked it where my mum is.”

Chirrut heard the bed creak as Baze turned over to look at him. He couldn’t see his expression. “What did it say?”

“Not sure. Guardian Tseng came in before I got it.” 

“Oh. Well, maybe you can ask it another time. When we’re allowed to know about it properly, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t sleep at all. He and Shyli lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and thinking about the way that fourth needle had touched at the hourglass. The hourglass with a skull perched on top of it.

He curled up under the covers, hugging rabbit-shaped Shyli to his chest. No matter what Guardian Tseng said, he knew the alethiometer had been telling him that his mother was dead.

* * *

Shyli settled when they were twelve, not long after both Chirrut and Baze had achieved the second _duan_. Chirrut had often wondered what settling would feel like, whether there would be an obvious sensation. Instead it was almost anti-climactic. They had been meditating, slowly getting better at sharing their senses, and when Chirrut had drifted back into his own body, blinking and sighing, Shyli had nudged him.

“Chirrut.”

“Mm?”

“I think this is it.”

He rubbed at his eyes to try and dissipate the almost permanent fog, a habit he knew he needed to break, and blinked down at her. “What’s it?”

She was in the form of a gecko, with blue-purple skin, golden stripes, and red eyes. He held a hand out to her and she crawled onto his palm. “This feels right,” she said.

He stared at her. “You’ve – you’ve settled? Just now?”

“I think so.” 

He had expected it to happen soon enough; for the last few weeks Shyli had been oddly restless, flicking from form to form much more than usual. Nothing had felt comfortable, she’d tried to explain, like wearing clothes that didn’t fit properly. But part of him still hadn’t really believed that it would eventually come to pass - all dæmons settled, of course, but the idea of Shyli _not_ changing was a strange one.

“Try and change?” he suggested. She closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head.

“Nothing. Huh.” She twisted to inspect herself, flicking her tail. “So I guess we’re a gecko. Didn’t guess that one.”

“No.” He lifted her closer so he could inspect her properly. “You’re all sorts of colours. I like it.”

“And at least I’m not a bat,” she said. 

“Yeah, or a deep sea fish, like Baze said.” Holding her gently, Chirrut scrambled to his feet, suddenly excited. “Let’s go show him!”

After calling at the library, the kitchen, and the creche, Chirrut eventually tracked Baze down in the garden, where he was crouched in the dirt checking some of the new plant shoots. Patience was not something that came easily to Chirrut, but Baze seemed to have it in spades. He could spend hours and hours reading books or working in the garden or painting, where Chirrut would get bored after twenty minutes and start to fidget.

“Baze!” he called, skidding to a halt in front of him. “Baze!”

Baze looked up, clearly a little startled. Zin, who had been dozing cat-formed in a sunbeam, leapt to her feet. “Are you alright?” Baze asked, concern on his face.

Chirrut fell to his knees and thrust out his hands, displaying Shyli. “We settled!”

Baze blinked, and Chirrut watched as he digested this information. “Since this morning?”

“Just now! We were meditating, and when we stopped she was like this.”

Baze stared at Shyli for a moment, and a big, slow smile spread over his face. “That’s amazing,” he said. It had taken so long for Baze to crack even the smallest smile when he’d first arrived at the Temple, it had been almost surprising to find out that his actual smile was so big and bright. Chirrut was always thrilled when he could make Baze smile like that. 

Zin nudged at Shyli with her cat nose, careful to avoid brushing Chirrut’s skin. “What did it feel like?” she asked, and Shyli cocked her head.

“It’s hard to explain,” she said. “It just felt like it fit, like nothing has for a long time. Do you ever feel like some shapes aren’t right?”

“Not really,” said Zin. “Only sometimes.” Baze was several months older than Chirrut, but people could settle at any age from ten to fifteen, so it was hardly unusual that Zin was still changing at almost thirteen. 

“I like it,” Baze told Chirrut. “It suits your lizardy face.”

Chirrut shoved him in the shoulder, and Baze laughed. “She’s a _gecko_ , Baze, not a lizard. You should know that, you’re meant to be the clever one.”

“Alright,” said Baze, still grinning. “It suits your gecko face then.”

The masters were thrilled when they found out. Shyli settling meant that they were ready to start preparing for the third _duan_. Master Hara spent an afternoon with them, doing all sorts of tests and measurements and taking photograms. They had done these a few times before, as had other Temple kids, and Chirrut knew it was to see how much Dust was around them, and if it was changing as they grew and learned more. Sometimes the masters would do similar tests and measurements during lessons, or meditations, to see what changed. Dust gathered more strongly around people whose dæmons had settled, so Master Hara wanted to measure to see how quickly or slowly that happened. She always processed the photograms in a special solution that showed Dust. 

Chirrut was excited to think that more of the beautiful, golden substance would be gathered around him now. He hoped that Baze would settle soon too, so _he_ could have more Dust around him, and they could practice for the third _duan_ together.

In the end, it was almost another year before Zin settled. Chirrut woke up one summer morning and lay with his eyes closed, counting down from thirty before he opened them. He knew one day he’d wake up to darkness, and he was always scared that this would be the day.

“Chirrut?” Baze’s voice sounded wavery and uncertain, in a way Chirrut hadn’t heard for a while. He abandoned his countdown and opened his eyes: the shadows still pressed in at the edges of his vision, but he could see Baze sitting cross-legged on the bed opposite. His hair was sticking up at the back, his ears glowing in the morning light, and it suddenly occurred to Chirrut how broad Baze’s shoulders had become recently. He blinked.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice thick with sleep.

“I think we settled.”

Chirrut sat up, and Shyli crawled to his knee. “What?”

“I woke up about an hour ago and couldn’t get back to sleep. We just felt really weird and jittery, and now—” He held up Zin.

“It’s like you said,” said the little hedgehog dæmon. “It feels right, like nothing else did.”

Chirrut stared at them. Baze’s eyes were filled with worry. “That’s great!” he said, grinning and hoping Baze would follow suit. 

“I guess so,” he said slowly, looking down at his dæmon, stroking her long ears with one finger and frowning. Chirrut watched him in concern: Baze was always so serious and thought about things too much; if he was unhappy with Zin’s form he would feel it deeply. Chirrut pushed down his instinct to tease and clambered out of bed to sit next to Baze, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

“It _is_ great,” he said reassuringly. 

“You think so?” said Zin, the worry in her voice matching the expression on Baze’s face.

“Of course we do,” Shyli exclaimed. “Don’t you like it?”

“I do…” said Zin slowly. “I just… it’s not really a _guardian_ form, is it?”

“Aw Baze, don’t,” said Chirrut, tightening his hold on Baze’s shoulders. His really very broad shoulders. “It doesn’t matter what your dæmon is, you can still be a guardian! You’re still the best student here, after all. Anyway, this just means you’re someone who knows how to protect themselves. And you’ll still be soppy old poetry-loving Baze underneath.”

That made Baze laugh his soft, rumbly laugh, and Chirrut beamed. “Thanks.”

“And now we both have nice, portable dæmons. Can you imagine if Zin was really big? She’d never be able to hide in your pocket.”

That made Baze laugh again. “That would be a disaster.”

“Yep. You’d have to have got new robes, with really big pockets.”

“I might need reinforced pockets now. She’s spiky.”

“I like the spikes,” said Zin. Baze put her down on the bed and Shyli went to inspect her, touching her quills with her nose. “And I don’t need to hide in pockets now, I can just do this—” She rolled herself up in a ball, and Shyli yelped as her nose was pricked. Chirrut winced, rubbing his own nose.

“See,” he said, “You’ll be a great guardian. Your dæmon is a weapon on her own.”

Baze and Zin seemed to get more comfortable with their new form over the next few weeks, which was a relief. Baze was smiling more, and he seemed to come out of his shell a little. He even beat Chirrut in sparring a few times, and Chirrut couldn’t even bring himself to care; he liked seeing Baze happy. He also didn’t especially mind Baze pinning him to the ground, which was something Chirrut tried not think about too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> Electrum - Amber
> 
> Armoured bears - or _panserbjørn_. Sentient, intelligent polar bears who live on Svalbard. They can speak and are just as (or more) intelligent than humans. They work wonders with metal, and make their armour out of sky-iron. Their armour is their soul, as dæmons are humans' souls.  
>  
> 
> The opening poem is lightly adapted from Greg Rucka's excellent "Guardians of the Whills" tie-in novel.
> 
> Zin settles as a [long-eared hedgehog](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e8/73/ca/e873ca224bb2d5ef31102485dc636f9a.jpg).
> 
> Shyli settles as a [cave gecko](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn%3AANd9GcSdRzgeEI5-Wl-cpJpGtu1dr5loVtg-oJ6FWfY2SAF4v1mt0atZ).


	3. Growing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are changing, both inside and outside the Temple.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _I perceive, in all things, this truth:_  
>  _That we are forever bound in Dust,_  
>  _And that Dust forever binds up together._  
>  _What we do to one, we therefore do to all._  
>  _And thus it is upon us to grant to all_  
>  _What we wish for ourselves._

Sometimes Nijedha felt very removed from the rest of the world, and even from the rest of Cathay, isolated out in the desert as it was. But the steady stream of pilgrims and tourists began to increase, and with them came stories about the wider world. 

Chirrut was often scolded by the masters for badgering the pilgrims, wanting to know more about the bustling cities of New Denmark, or the expansive forests of Tartary. He was determined, one day, that he would travel to all of these places, and learn about how they understood Dust. He sat for hours with a visiting German scholar, who was both gratified and amused by the interest this blind, gawky Cathay teenager was showing his alethiometry research, until Master Hara shooed Chirrut away to do his chores.

The news and stories the pilgrims brought were mostly fascinating, but slowly they became worrying. From Europe there was talk of the re-emergence of some of the more prominent branches of the Magisterium: the College of Bishops had been re-established; universities were electing Magisterium representatives as chancellors, and official investigators were once again being placed with research teams. The new Magister in Geneva was talking expansively of order, and safety, and unity, and all the while rumours of a new Consistorial Court of Discipline began to grow. 

All of this reached the Temple gradually, in bits and worrying pieces. The masters and the guardians talked anxiously with the pilgrims and together, and the students and disciples tried to understand as much as possible.

“They want to close down all the temples and mosques and things,” said Wei one summer’s day, scrubbing hard at the practice room floor.

“That’s just in the West,” said Tana scornfully, dunking her brush back into the soapy water. “It didn’t come this far last time, and it won’t do it again. What does the Magisterium want with Cathay?”

“Easier to get to this side of the world now though,” Wei pointed out. His dæmon, a little ferret, made a chirruping noise of agreement. “It was different a hundred years ago.”

“The Temple’s been here for hundreds and hundreds of years,” said Chirrut confidently, squinting down at the spot of floor he was meant to be cleaning, barely able to make it out through his shadowed vision. Shyli nudged him to confirm that it was clean enough, and he shuffled further along. “And we’ve got the guardians and the masters. And Dust. Dust will protect us.”

“That’s right,” said Tana, nodding. “You’re worrying about nothing, Wei.”

But the rumours continued unabated. Soon, it became apparent that they were not rumours at all. 

Chirrut tried to be positive. The Temple had endured much over the centuries. If the Magisterium did make its way to Cathay, the Temple would continue. Baze looked a little worried whenever they talked about it, but he was even more stalwart in his belief than Chirrut.

“The Temple’s protected,” he said, putting down the book he was reading, sprawled on his bed. “And Dust will guide us to the right path. It’s stronger than they are, and so are we.” His voice was full of simple confidence.

The alethiometer would tell them, Chirrut thought, fidgeting with the sleeve of his robe. He had considered breaking into the tallest tower again, to try and ask it what was happening, but Shyli kept dissuading him. Instead he tried to meditate whenever he grew anxious and, when that didn’t work, to spar until he was too exhausted for worry.

He was saved replying to Baze by a soft, rustling sound outside their window. They glanced at one another, their worry turning to sudden excitement at that rare noise. Zin and Shyli both scurried to the small window to peer out into the gathering evening.

“The rains!” cried Zin, her large ears pricked. Shyli clambered onto the window pane, as though the drops that began to spatter there might land on her body.

In a few hours the rains would become a deluge that would charge through Nijedha, sending rivers of dirty water through the streets. Everybody who could would stay inside for a few days until they passed; the Temple would open its doors to those who needed refuge. Afterwards there would be the Festival of Renewal, with food and dancing and magnificent lanterns sent up into the bright, clean air.

Before that, though, the rains would be gentle and kind, sweeping across the city like the softest of brushes. It was one of Chirrut’s favourite times of year.

“Let’s go!” he exclaimed, already on his feet. Technically it was after curfew, but he didn’t think the masters could begrudge them this chance. 

Baze hesitated for only a moment before nodding, a smile blooming over his face. 

They raced down the stairs, pushing one another and laughing as they tried to be first out into the courtyard. The rain was fresh and clean, already sending little dusty streams across the stone floor. Chirrut whooped and sprinted a lap around the courtyard, Shyli scampering after him, jumping in the puddles and soaking the bottom of his robes. Baze stood in the centre of the yard with his arms outstretched, his face tipped up to the sky. 

The Temple would endure, Chirrut thought, as he stuck his tongue out to catch the raindrops. The rains would come, as they always did, and the Temple would endure.

* * *

The worries of the outside world buffeted against the Temple’s walls like a tide, but life continued much as it ever had: lessons, and training, and collecting alms, and chores. Both Chirrut and Baze passed their fourth _duan_ , and were able to start teaching some of the younger pupils the more basic lessons. The Temple’s days moved steadily, marked with bells and prayer and meditation, and nothing seemed to change.

Well. Some things changed.

They were fifteen, and most of the other boys at the Temple had started to talk a _lot_ about girls. The girls had also started to talk a _lot_ about boys, and to cluster in laughing groups while they did it. Chirrut had noticed a fair few girls sending newly appreciative glances at Baze, who had grown even more in the last few months and filled out across the chest and shoulders. Every time another girl looked Baze up and down Chirrut felt an uncomfortable squirming sensation in his chest. Baze was, apparently, oblivious.

“It’s because you don’t want him to start spending time with some girl,” Shyli said reasonably one evening when they were meant to be meditating. “It would change things.”

It would, and Chirrut didn’t want things to change. He and Baze had been best friends for years, and they knew everything about one another. The idea of that being interrupted by Baze being interested in a girl was horrible.

“ _We’re_ meant to be thinking about girls,” Chirrut muttered to Shyli. “Everyone else is.”

“Maybe we’re just a bit later than other people,” she said. “Besides, you think some girls are pretty.”

“Yeah, _pretty_ , but that’s not the same as what everyone else is talking about.”

“Not everyone! A lot of people, but not everyone. Not Baze.”

That was true. The girls would look at Baze, but he didn’t seem to look back in the same way. Chirrut felt a bit better. “He’s too shy. He’d probably explode if he had to talk to a girl he liked.”

Later, he and Shyli lay in agonised silence and listened to Baze falling asleep. Their room even _smelled_ like Baze, of old library books, soap, and fresh soil from the garden. It was the most comforting smell Chirrut knew. He couldn’t shake the tight feeling in his stomach. Things were going to change, and he was not ready. He wanted to stay at the Temple with Baze forever, but one day Baze would meet someone and then Chirrut wouldn’t be the most important person in Baze’s life any more. Maybe Baze would leave the Temple.

“Stop it,” Shyli whispered fiercely, but he couldn’t stop it. He lay awake and fretted for hours before finally drifting into unsettled dreams.

* * *

Chirrut’s vision started to deteriorate even more rapidly, to the point that he eventually gave in and started using a cane to get around. It was more difficult than he’d anticipated, and he was often exhausted and frustrated. His sparring skills suffered, his classwork went downhill when he could barely read or write properly, and his head ached constantly. He was meant to be practicing for the fifth _duan_ , meant to be studying anbaromagnetism, meant to be learning, creating, connecting, all of those wonderful things that generated precious Dust, but instead he was just miserable and frustrated. If there was such a thing as anti-Dust, that was what he was creating.

Baze had offered to spar with him as practice outside of the formal lessons, and he had agreed, which was something he sorely regretted very quickly. Baze was patient to a fault, and was clearly holding back his own speed and strength to account for Chirrut’s difficulties. It should have been reassuring, but instead Chirrut felt frustrated and patronised.

“Just _fight me_ ,” he yelled eventually, giving up on proper technique and simply shoving Baze in the chest as hard as he could. Baze stumbled back, and Chirrut felt a nasty little thrill.

“Chirrut—” Baze began, and his voice was gentle. Chirrut did not want him to be gentle.

“Stop it!” he snapped. “If you’re not going to do it properly then don’t bother!”

Baze was silent for several moments, and Chirrut wished he could see the expression on his face. He could just make out the shadow of Baze’s form, the way his broad shoulders were drawn and uncertain, but he couldn’t see his face at all. He imagined his downturned mouth, his sad eyes, and it made him angry.

“I’m sorry,” Baze said eventually. “I was just trying to help.”

“I don’t _need_ help,” Chirrut said furiously. He knew he was indulging the anger rippling under his skin, knew that he should attempt to tame it the way the masters taught, but right then he didn’t care. He turned away from Baze and stormed away, stopping only to scoop up Shyli and pick up his stupid cane. 

Part of him wanted Baze to call after him, but he didn’t.

* * *

Baze stayed in the practice room after Chirrut had stormed out, feeling completely at sea. He knew he had hurt Chirrut, but he wasn’t sure how he had done it or how to fix it. Guilt sat like hot lead in his stomach, so he busied himself with tidying and sweeping until he felt a little less shaky. Zin curled up in his pocket, the way she always did when something was wrong.

Chirrut wasn’t in their room, or in the garden, or meditating. No one had seen him.

“Lost him, have you?” laughed Guardian Rena. “I thought you were practically his dæmon, Malbus.”

That was a common joke at the Temple, and Baze was never sure how to feel about it. Part of him, a part that he tried to keep locked up as tight as possible, was always a little pleased that people saw how close he and Chirrut were, how important Chirrut was to him. But it scared him a bit too, in ways he couldn’t quite describe. 

Baze wasn’t stupid, or unobservant (people sometimes thought he was, mistaking being quiet and shy for being slow), and he knew that plenty of his classmates spent their time flirting with members of the opposite sex, sneaking away to kiss – and more than kiss – in hidden corners of the Temple and then bragging about it later. He also knew that a few girls had tried to flirt with _him_ , that now they were older his height and breadth was appealing to some of them. “Strong and silent,” he’d heard Tana laugh to her friend.

“I don’t need him to speak,” her friend Laurel had said, tossing her hair and giving Baze a smile over her shoulder. Her cockatiel dæmon had preened his feathers, and Zin had curled up tighter in Baze’s pocket.

It all made his ears burn. Not because he liked it, particularly – he had never liked being the centre of attention – but because of how aware it made him of his own… deficiencies. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t think about things like that, it was that it was all _wrong_ for him. He knew, objectively, that Tana was very pretty, that Laurel’s developing curves were subject to great admiration from the other boys, but all he found himself dwelling on was the lean muscles of Chirrut’s arms and shoulders, his long, clever fingers, the brightness of his smile. 

“We’re just muddled,” Zin had tried to reassure him. “Everyone’s all confused when they’re fifteen, you just can’t tell. It’s because we spend so much time with him.”

But Baze _wanted_ to spend all his time with Chirrut. He wanted to be close to him all the time, and whenever they touched – which was often, even more often now that Chirrut was having to relearn how to navigate the world – it felt like someone had set a fire under his skin. He’d heard the way other kids had talked about liking people, so how had he ended up so mixed up and wrong that he felt that way about _Chirrut_ , and not a girl?

Chirrut didn’t come to dinner. He wasn’t in the library, or in any of the practice rooms. As darkness began to fall, Baze’s worry increased. Had Chirrut left the Temple? What if something had happened to him?

Normally Baze wouldn’t have been worried about anything happening to Chirrut – he could more than take care of himself, after all – but he had been so upset and angry lately, and struggling to adjust to his deteriorating eyesight. Baze had every faith that Chirrut would adapt in time, would once again be the fiercest, strongest fighter in the whole Temple, but to see him fight against everything and everyone in the meantime was difficult. 

“Looking for your shadow?” Guardian Tseng asked as Baze made yet another circuit of the Temple grounds, debating whether he should ask to go out into the city and look for Chirrut there.

“Have you seen him?” 

The old guardian gave him an enigmatic smile and nodded towards the garden. “Look up,” he suggested.

The wall. Baze could have kicked himself for not checking the top of the wall. Chirrut had used to make him climb up there all the time when they were kids, even though Baze had been scared of heights and climbing had made him feel shaky and dizzy.

He wasn’t scared of heights any more, and he was strong enough to climb, but he still didn’t particularly like sitting on top of the wall with the great empty sky the only thing between you and the desert hundreds of feet below. With a sigh, Baze made his way to the gardens and yes, there was Chirrut, a small figure perched up on the wall looking out over the mesa.

“What do you want?” Chirrut asked in a sullen voice, as Baze finally made it to the top of the wall to sit beside him. The wind was keen and cold up here, and Baze shivered.

“To talk to you.”

Chirrut didn’t say anything, just kicked his feet against the ancient stone. Shyli was perched on his head, staring out into the gathering darkness.

“I want to help,” Baze said helplessly. “But I don’t know how.”

“I don’t _want_ help,” Chirrut said, his voice low and angry. “I just want things to carry on as normal.”

“I want that too.” He did, so very badly. But things were changing anyway. 

Chirrut wrapped his arms around himself, hunching over. “Just treat me the way you always do,” he said. “I hate it when you act like I’m going to break.”

“I don’t think you’re going to break.”

“Then why won’t you fight me properly?”

“Because – I just – Chirrut, you’ve always been better than me, we both know that! I didn’t want to take advantage when you’re getting used to – you know. And when you’re used to it you’ll knock me in the dirt again like always, I know you will.”

Chirrut snorted. “I didn’t ask you to do that. I’d rather you beat me in a fair fight than you _let_ me win because you feel sorry for me.”

Privately Baze thought that it _wasn’t_ a fair fight when he could see and Chirrut couldn’t, but he knew that would just make Chirrut angrier. “I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“Yes, you do!”

“I’m sad that you’re dealing with something really hard, and I know I can’t understand it. I know you’re angry and you’re scared. But I don’t _pity_ you. You’re still a smart-mouth who always thinks he knows best.”

A very faint smile touched the corner of Chirrut’s mouth at that. “When did you get so clever?”

“I’ve always been the clever one.”

“Hah.” Chirrut unwrapped his arms with a sigh, resting his hands on the top of the wall. “So you’ll fight me properly tomorrow?”

“If you want.”

“Good.”

“I am still going to stop you walking into walls, though.”

“I can still see walls, Baze.”

“ _Barely_.” 

Chirrut did laugh then, and Baze grinned. He rested his own hands on the wall so he could lean back a little to look up at the emerging stars, and the little finger of his right hand rested against Chirrut’s. He froze, even that tiny point of contact making his heart thunder in his ears. He told himself to move away, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He put his other hand in his pocket to touch Zin, found her half-curled up and nervous.

“What are the stars like tonight?” Chirrut asked.

“Bright,” Baze offered, and Chirrut sighed. 

“No, _describe them_ , Baze. You want to help? You need to get used to telling me what things look like.”

Baze tried again, tried to forget about the small point of warmth between Chirrut and himself. This was stupid, they touched all the time. He swallowed. “You can see the dragon’s tail, above those cliffs out there. The weaver girl is really bright tonight, she’s rising up over the desert now, though her dæmon’s still below the horizon...”

Chirrut shuffled closer, leaning towards Baze’s voice. As he moved his fingers brushed over the back of Baze’s knuckles, and stayed there. Baze faltered for a moment, feeling his ears burning, before continuing on. He hoped his voice didn’t sound too shaky. He tightened his other hand around Zin, her sharp quills pricking his palm, and he tried to focus on that instead.

The next day, he couldn’t seem to shake off the feeling of Chirrut’s hand on his. He kept telling himself that it was stupid, but somehow it had felt different to every other time they’d touched, like Chirrut’s skin had branded him somehow. Chirrut didn’t appear to have noticed, so Baze tried to push it away and forget about it.

* * *

“You should have done it,” Shyli said.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“What would he have done if you had?”

“Hit me? Got mad?” Those didn’t sound like Baze, but Chirrut didn’t want to risk them anyway. “I don’t want him to hate me.”

“He wouldn’t hate you.”

“Shyli, other people don’t go around holding their friends’ hands, do they? It’s stupid, stop talking about it.”

“But you wanted to.”

Chirrut flung his hands up in despair. “Yes! I did want to, but that’s not the point. It’s not right Shyli, so shut up.”

She did shut up, but huffily. Chirrut tried to ignore her. He had been doing a lot of ignoring lately: ignoring his dæmon when she tried to get him to talk about things, ignoring the masters when they tried to help him, ignoring the way Baze’s voice, which was now all deep and rumbly, made his skin feel all tight, ignoring how big and strong Baze felt when they sparred together, ignoring the stupid dreams he had where he could see Baze’s face and his warm eyes and his lips. If he ignored all of it, maybe it would just stop affecting him so much. 

It made Shyli cross though, and she snapped at him a lot. She was having trouble adjusting to being Chirrut’s eyes, forgetting to warn him about steps or obstacles in his path, and she was even more frustrated because Zin was barely speaking to her these days. Zin had started spending most of her time hiding, just like she had when Baze was a child. It was extremely difficult to tell why; Baze could be absolutely impossible to read. It was like being friends with a wall.

* * *

The rains came early that year, and with as much force as ever. Baze was leading a class, teaching some of the younger children the basic forms for wing chun, when the faint pattering began against the window. Two of the kids at the back of the class started to elbow one another and whisper excitedly, their dæmons flicking rapidly between different forms and dancing around their feet. All of the children craned to look out of the tall window, some of their dæmons even turning into birds to flutter up to the ledge. Baze tried to restrain himself, tried to be as disciplined as he always told the children they should be, but he couldn’t help but glance at the window as well. 

“Yes!” cried one of the girls in the front row, hopping up and down in excitement. 

“Rain!” whooped another child. “Can we go out? Please Baze, please?”

“Yeah!” 

There was no way he could keep their attention now. Master Lam would probably lecture him on correct discipline later, but Baze couldn’t resist the bright enthusiasm on all the faces in front of him. And a small part of him was still enough of a child to want to go and jump in puddles himself.

“Alright,” he said with a sigh. “But you’ve got to be tidied up in time for dinner, alright?”

They all chorused agreement, though half of them would almost certainly turn up for dinner wet and bedraggled just the same. They all, at least, remembered to bow to end the session before they all ran outside.

“You’re too soft on them,” Zin groused as Baze picked her up and set her on his shoulder. “They’ll stop listening to you eventually.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think so. They won’t listen to me if they think I’m just going to be mean to them.”

Zin huffed, but Baze ignored her. He liked teaching, liked working with the children and seeing them improve and grow in confidence. It didn’t come naturally to him, the way it seemed to come naturally to Chirrut: he wasn’t always sure of the best way to explain things, and sometimes tripped over his words or flustered himself. But then, sometimes, something would happen: little Hae would execute a perfect straight kick, or Sun would break a hold for the first time, and something warm would rise in Baze’s chest like fresh bread.

Outside, the rain was already coming down in a steady sheet. The tallest tower seemed to waver in the mist, the Temple turned a soft grey colour. The children had been joined by other classes, all of them soaked and laughing as they ran around the courtyard. Their dæmons shrieked and yelled as they pounced on one another and chased in circles. Baze leant against a pillar to watch, the rain running down his face. Zin, grumbling, retired to his pocket to try and keep dry.

“You actually let them out early?” Chirrut’s laughing voice made Baze jump; he had appeared as though from nowhere, Shyli perched in his damp hair. He was getting better at navigating the Temple now, rarely stumbling or misjudging his direction. He leant against the pillar beside Baze, a warm line against his side, and suddenly Baze’s heart was in his throat. He swallowed. “I thought you’d be strict and keep them til bell.”

“As though they’d have learnt anything,” Baze snorted. “Besides, they’re going to be stuck inside for days after this, they should run around while they can.”

Chirrut hummed. “Come on,” he said. “Race you.”

“What?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you too serious for this now?” Chirrut’s grin broadened, showing all his teeth, creasing his eyes. His eyes, which were now almost entirely a misty blue colour. Like the sky after the rains. Rivulets of water ran down the angular lines of his face, raindrops clinging to his eyelashes. Baze had the sudden, mad urge to brush them away.

“I didn’t say that,” he said instead, folding his arms. “But we’re meant to set an example, now…”

“Ugh.” Chirrut huffed dramatically. “Stop being boring.” He pushed Baze’s shoulder, rather harder than necessary, making him stumble sideways to where a stream of rainwater plunged down from a windowsill above. The cold water hit Baze hard, making him yelp and splutter, and Chirrut’s cackling laugh lifted above the joyful shouts of the children. Baze cursed, wiping his hand over his face, and glared at Chirrut even though he knew his friend couldn’t see it.

“Catch me, then,” Chirrut teased, and before Baze could say anything more he’d leapt away, cane tucked under his arm, and splashed across the courtyard. For a brief moment Baze considered ignoring him, but Zin poked her head out of his pocket.

“Come on,” she urged. “Let’s push him in a puddle.”

Though Baze was tall and faster than his bulk suggested, Chirrut was still quicker and more nimble, even blind as he was. Baze tore after his friend, soon soaked to the skin, his robes sodden, and Chirrut always danced out of reach, laughing. Eventually, however, Chirrut didn’t turn quite fast enough, and Baze got a hold of him. Hanging onto Chirrut was like trying to hold onto a squirming fish, but Baze managed to hook his legs out from under him to drop him unceremoniously into a puddle. 

He saw, too late, the grin on Chirrut’s face, felt a wiry arm wrap about his chest, cane behind his knees, and then he was in the puddle too.

“You—!” he spluttered, sitting up. If he’d been wet before it was nothing to how he was now. Zin scrambled out of his pocket and shook herself with a sound of disgust, puddle water soaked into her spines. Getting her properly dry was going to be a nightmare.

Chirrut was grinning, his face lit up like the sun breaking through clouds. “You got me.”

“I don’t think it counts when I ended up the wettest,” Baze grumbled, and splashed some of the puddle water at Chirrut, who yelped.

“We’re _all_ wet, Baze.” Chirrut knelt up and shuffled towards him, his robes dragging in the puddle, cold fingers finding Baze’s arm. He trailed his hand up Baze’s arm to his cheek, where he ineffectually used his wet sleeve to wipe Baze’s face. Despite the cold of the day, warmth seemed to bloom under Baze’s skin, his face burning, that horrible, tight lump in his throat again. Chirrut’s face was very close: he was still smiling slightly, his brows drawn in concentration. “There,” he said, and sat back. “Better?”

Shyli had crawled down from Chirrut’s head to his knee. She stretched out across the gap between them, as though to touch her nose to Zin’s, the way they had done so many times. Zin curled up, and Baze hurriedly scooped her to his chest, scrambling to his feet. 

“We should go in,” he said, holding his dæmon against his inexplicably pounding heart. The rain was getting heavier now, the skies turning an iron grey. Two guardians were shepherding the children inside. The rain would soon be too torrential to be out for long, and they needed to prepare the Temple to house those who needed refuge from the floods.

Chirrut felt around for his cane and then stood up. He was still smiling a little, but his face had gone distant, as though behind clouds. Shyli crawled inside his robes. “Yes,” he said. “Lots to do.” 

They climbed the narrow stairs to their room in silence. Baze felt, horribly, like he’d done something wrong, but he had no idea what. He watched Chirrut pull on dry robes, fumbling with the ties, and had no idea how to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glossary:
> 
> New Denmark: Our-world northern United States (from Texas northwards - The Republic of Texas is a separate country, and many our-world south and south-western states are part of Hispania Nova).
> 
> Tartary: A country covering part of our-world central and northern Asia.
> 
> The opening poem is lightly adapted from Greg Rucka's excellent "Guardians of the Whills" tie-in novel.


	4. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some unwelcome visitors, and Baze and Chirrut make a discovery.
> 
>  
> 
> _The moment between breaths_  
>  _Is when Dust gathers._  
>  _Life to life to life._  
>  _In rest and action._  
>  _Serenity and passion._  
>  _Hope and despair._

“Who are they?” whispered Chirrut, leaning unnecessarily close to Baze. Shyli had crept around the corner on sticky gecko feet to take a look at the curious visitors. Baze tried to shuffle away from Chirrut without making it too obvious, his ears burning.

“Magisterium, I think,” he whispered back. The two men who had arrived that morning were waiting outside the masters’ chamber, which they used only for their most serious councils. One visitor was a kindly-looking white man with grey hair, a treefrog dæmon sitting primly on his shoulder; the other was young, tall and black, with a severe face and a vicious-looking hawk dæmon. Both were wearing high, stiff collars that suggested that they were clerics of some kind.

Baze suspected that this visit was not unexpected, and was equally unwelcome. Master Hara’s lips had thinned until they had almost disappeared, but she had been gracious enough in welcoming the new guests. The Temple never turned people away, unless they proved themselves to be malicious.

“But why are they _here_?” Chirrut demanded, sounding uncharacteristically ruffled. “I thought the Magisterium hated different religions.”

Baze shrugged, unease prickling along his spine. It was true, though. News had continued to filter through about the closure of temples and mosques in the West, even churches whose beliefs did not line up with the Magisterium’s stern edicts. And the Magisterium’s power and money had been creeping further and further East. 

The door to the chamber creaked open, and Master Lam gestured the visitors inside, his weathered face grim. The old man inclined his head in a show of deference, and swept into the room, followed rather more stiffly by his companion. Master Lam’s eyes fell on where Baze and Chirrut were spying, and his sharp eyebrows lifted in silent rebuke.

They beat a hasty retreat.

* * *

“We should spy properly,” Chirrut said later. They were in the library, supposedly studying, but actually seeing who could throw crumpled bits of paper into an antique open-necked vase. Chirrut, somehow, was winning.

“How?” Baze demanded. “We can’t get into that room when they’re all locked up in there. Anyway, it’s none of our business.”

“It’s our Temple too! And when we’re guardians, we need to protect it.”

Baze frowned. His next throw landed neatly inside the vase. “Do you think we need to protect it from – them?”

“Of course we do,” Chirrut said impatiently. “Why else would they be here?”

“Maybe they actually want to learn…” Even to Baze’s own ears it sounded weak, and Chirrut scoffed. “Fine. I think you’re right. But we still can’t break in.”

“Not break in. Maybe just… listen to what they’re saying.”

“Chirrut, we really need to study!”

“Yes, and somehow even you, Master of Doing All His Homework, aren’t studying. You’re as interested as I am. Come on.”

And without waiting for Baze, Chirrut stood up and headed out of the library, cane in hand. Baze sighed, Zin sighing with him.

* * *

The Temple had stood for hundreds of years, weathering storms and high winds and the steady press of time. It was a magnificent, ancient building, but like many magnificent, ancient buildings, it had all manner of nooks, crannies, and hidey-holes. Chirrut may not be able to see any more, but he had long ago mapped all of the little weaknesses the Temple offered. When he was six, he had managed to sneak into the masters’ chamber through a small window set high in the wall.

He was sixteen now, not six, so there was no way he would fit through that window. But there were still ways to listen.

“Chirrut, what are you doing?” Baze asked, jogging up the stairs behind him. “The chamber’s not this way.”

“No,” Chirrut agreed, leaping easily over a step he knew was crumbling. “But the old languages classroom is right on top of it.”

“If you’re planning to climb through the ceiling, you’re on you’re own.”

Chirrut shot an unimpressed look in Baze’s general direction. “Have some faith, my friend,” he chided. “Isn’t that what you’re good at?”

“I don’t think Dust is going to care about us spying.”

“Dust cares about curiosity,” Chirrut shot back. “A bit of healthy curiosity about important Temple matters. Come on, Guardian Malbus!”

There were many air vents throughout the Temple, huge bricks with holes bored through them. In particularly high winds they often produced strange whistles or eerie moaning noises, and it was the habit of many older students to convince the younger that the Temple was haunted. Chirrut had never been scared by these stories, and had in fact been disappointed to discover the truth of the matter.

Now, though, the vents were proving useful. He and Baze huddled in the corner, listening hard, their dæmons both pressed up against the vent to listen to the faint, echoey sound of the voices drifting from the room below. They had to lean very close to one another, and Chirrut found himself momentarily distracted by the fact that he could feel Baze’s body heat. Shyli tugged impatiently at his attention.

“—are just interested in your research,” said a creaky, unfamiliar voice. His accent might have been German, Chirrut wasn’t sure, but his Cathay was fairly good. “You don’t want to share your learning?”

“We do not object to sharing it.” That was Master Aida, second master of experimental theology, and one of the youngest. She was whip-sharp, and Chirrut admired her greatly. “But you have not explained what you want to use it for.”

“I was under the impression,” Master Hara cut in, her voice thoughtful and interested, with a steely edge that Chirrut wasn’t sure the Magisterium men had picked up on, “that the Magisterium had access to the research of many great universities across the world. Our research is done in order to deepen our understanding of our faith. Surely it cannot be more valuable than what you can learn at Oxford, or Harvard?”

“Ah,” said the possibly-German cleric. “It would be a mistake to think things of value can only come from places like Oxford.”

“Yes.” The clipped, cold voice of the other cleric was English, his Cathay stilted. “There are many things of value to be found in… places like this.” There was a significance in his voice, underscored by a low, slightly threatening sound from his dæmon.

“I am glad you think so,” said Master Aylis, not sounding glad at all. 

“The properties of the electrum in this part of the world…”

Chirrut frowned, and he ran his thumb over the electrum embedded at the head of his cane, a little candle in his mind. The electrum was precious, special, drawing Dust to it like bees to pollen.

“A great mystery,” Master Hara said, still with a bite to her words. “And a very private aspect of our faith. I am sure you understand.”

The English man began to protest, but the old German man cut in. “Certainly. We all have, ah, private, personal beliefs. The Magisterium is simply interested in how some of these properties can be used for good.”

“I’m afraid we guard our secrets closely,” said Master Hara. “We welcome outsiders here, but ask that they respect our ways. Perhaps we can discuss some of our other research later, or tomorrow. Gentlemen, will you join us for dinner?”

The sound of chairs being pushed back, the murmur of voices as the masters and the two clerics fell into banal chat, moving towards the door and to the dining hall. Baze nudged Chirrut’s shoulder, and the two of them got to their feet, brushing off their dusty robes.

“What did you think about all that?” Baze asked quietly as they went back downstairs. “They sound like they’re just here to learn…” He trailed off doubtfully.

“That’s what they _said_ ,” said Chirrut, “but I don’t think it’s what they _mean_.” Shyli made a noise of agreement, her tail whipping in agitation.

“But it didn’t sound like they were talking about shutting the Temple down, or anything. Maybe they’ll realise how much good we do here.”

Chirrut’s heart seemed to constrict a little. Baze was always so _good_ , always trying to look for the best in a situation. “Maybe,” he said slowly, but he couldn’t help thinking about what other things of value the Magisterium could find here in the Temple. He focused on the glow of his electrum, his mind troubled.

* * *

Over dinner, Baze watched the two Magisterium men closely. They sat far away, between Master Hara and Master Aylis. Both masters smiled and talked politely, but he noticed the way they sent one another concerned looks, the way Master Aylis’ lips grew very thin, how Master Hara’s eyebrows pulled down. The two clerics made conversation and ate a little – both using their chopsticks very awkwardly – but their dæmons were unsettled and alert, the tree frog crawling back and forth across the table, the hawk fidgeting on her perch, raising and lowering her wings. 

“I don’t like them,” Zin muttered, where she was perched on his knee, her quills flared. “I hope they won’t stay long.”

Baze had tried to think of positive reasons that the two men might be here, and why they were so interested in the electrum, but he felt the same as Zin. Their presence filled him with a sort of formless dread. The old German man was looking around the room with his pale, almost colourless eyes, and his companion’s face was hard and unapproachable. He couldn’t imagine that they wanted to know about the joy of Dust, or cared much about creating it.

He glanced at Chirrut, wanting to talk to him about it, but not able to find the words. There often seemed to be this odd barrier between them, these days. They had used to talk about anything, everything, and he would never have shied away from sharing his worries with his best friend. But now… well. He was terrified that he would give himself away, somehow. That Chirrut would realise how Baze had started to think of him, and then he would leave. Baze would rather gnaw his own hands off than drive Chirrut away from him, and so he sat on his words more often than not, measuring them out, careful not to give too much of himself away.

* * *

It took Chirrut a long while to fall asleep that night, ruminating on what the Magisterium men could want. He thought about the French scholar he had talked to, who had explained that her research was being hampered and overseen by Magisterium officials. About the two brothers travelling the world, who had just heard about their parents’ mosque being shut down. Anxiety gripped his heart, and no amount of reassurance from Shyli could really help. He wished he could talk to Baze about it, but Baze was asleep. And besides, Baze was still shying away from him so often these days, he probably wouldn’t want to talk about it at all.

The alethiometer would tell him what was going on, he thought. It could tell him what those men wanted, and how to get rid of them. 

He must have drifted into an uneasy sleep, because the next thing he knew he was startled awake, tense and alert, and for a moment he wasn’t sure why. Then he heard Baze make a sound of utter distress, heard the rustling of sheets and creak of bedsprings as he moved, and his heart clenched. It had been so long since Baze had had a nightmare that Chirrut had almost forgotten what it sounded like. 

The nightmares had been a regular feature when Baze was younger. He had eventually confided in Chirrut that they were usually about his parents’ deaths, in some way or another. He spoke about his parents rarely, though Chirrut knew he still missed them. He tried to be sensitive around the subject; they were both orphans, but Chirrut had never felt the loss of family as keenly as Baze. The masters and guardians were the only family Chirrut remembered or cared for, but they could never truly be that for Baze. Over the years the nightmares had slowly faded, or at least hadn’t been so bad as to wake Chirrut up. 

But now Baze sounded even more distressed than Chirrut had ever heard him. He lay awake, agonising. Shyli crawled from his pillow to his chest. “Wake him up,” she whispered.

When they were younger, Chirrut had always just shaken Baze awake and crawled into bed with him. It had been a comfort, and his presence had always seemed to calm Baze. He had once told Chirrut that he slept much better when Chirrut was there, and at the time that had just made Chirrut feel warm and pleased. Now he bit his lip, fighting himself. He couldn’t trust himself now, not when he knew that he wanted to be close to Baze for reasons that had nothing to do with comfort. And besides, they were sixteen. They were basically grown-ups. It was alright for children to share beds, but this was different.

But Baze wasn’t waking up, and the nightmare sounded like it was getting worse. 

“Just wake him up!” hissed Shyli. “You don’t have to do anything else.”

Chirrut flung back his bedclothes, shivering at the sudden shock of cold in the room, and slid out of bed, holding Shyli to his chest with one hand. The stone floor was freezing on his bare feet. Baze’s bed was five steps away; his knees bumped against the mattress, and he reached out with his free hand to find Baze, groping in the cold air until his fingers met something warm and solid: Baze’s shoulder, tense and shaking. As Chirrut grasped his shoulder more firmly, to shake him awake, Baze gave another soft cry of fear, pulling away.

“No – can’t – no – Z’n, I—” 

“Baze!” Chirrut whispered fiercely, shaking him. “Baze, wake up. It’s just a dream, wake up—”

“No-no-no – Zin – _Chirrut_ —”

Chirrut’s heart seemed to stop. He had heard Baze call for his parents before, when trapped in a nightmare, and for his dæmon, but never Chirrut. He shook him again.

“Baze, _wake up_. Please Baze, come on—”

Baze woke with a gasp, as suddenly as if Chirrut had doused him in freezing water, flailing slightly and smacking Chirrut on the arm in the process. Chirrut cursed and let him go, stepping back. Baze’s breathing was ragged and too fast.

“Chirrut – what—” his voice was rough with tiredness and shaky from the nightmare. “Oh – shit, I woke you up. I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s okay,” said Chirrut quickly. “It’s fine.” He reached out again, finding Baze’s shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze of comfort. Baze didn’t pull away. He was sitting up now, hunched over and clearly trying to get his breathing under control. Shyli wriggled her way out of Chirrut’s grip and crawled up to his shoulder, pushing her head against his neck.

“Are you okay?” Chirrut asked. This strange distance and tension between them was still here, and he didn’t know how to get past it. He didn’t know how to comfort Baze now, didn’t know what would be welcome. 

“Yes,” Baze said. A pause, and then: “No. I thought I’d stopped having these stupid dreams, but—” There was a soft sound that Chirrut recognised as Baze running his hand down his face. “They’ve been getting worse. I’ve not woken you up for ages.”

“I thought you’d stopped having them.”

“I did. But now they – it’s not just my parents, now. _Ugh_.” His voice became muffled, as though he’d hidden his face in his hand. “You can go back to bed Chirrut, you don’t need to stay up. Thank you for waking me.” He sounded so utterly lost, and Chirrut _ached_. Before he could second-guess himself, he fumbled for the edge of the bed and sat down on it, wrapping his arm fully about Baze’s shoulders. For a moment Baze was tense and still, his breathing still too rough and ragged, and then he leant a little into Chirrut.

“You’re alright,” Chirrut told him, uselessly. “They’re just dreams.”

There was a small, sad noise from Zin, and Chirrut realised Baze must be holding her to his chest. He moved further onto the bed so he could lean into Baze’s side, resting the sides of their heads together. 

“They always used to end with my parents in the fire,” Baze whispered. “Now it’s – it’s you, as well. And I – I can’t—”

He broke off, and Chirrut tightened the arm around him. “Just dreams,” he repeated fiercely. “I’m here, I’m fine, I’m not going anywhere.”

They sat in silence, Baze’s breathing gradually steadying, but they didn’t move away from one another. Eventually Baze set Zin down, and Shyli crawled down from Chirrut’s shoulder to her. Chirrut leant into Baze and felt his dæmon nuzzle at Baze’s. The two dæmons crept to the top corner of the bed where they had always slept as kids, curling up together in closeness and comfort. It was the first time in weeks that Zin had let Shyli close, and Chirrut felt it like a dam opening in his heart.

Baze seemed to feel it too, because he lay back down and tugged Chirrut down with him, pulling the covers over them both. They lay side-by-side, just as they always had done before, something strange and tense lying between them. Chirrut was very aware of how warm Baze was, how close, of the smell of his soap and his hair and his sleep. The bed was narrow and they barely fit; Baze was crammed against the wall and Chirrut was in danger of falling off the side, but their arms were pressed together. The feeling of Baze’s skin on his was anbaric, almost painful. Longing rose in Chirrut’s chest, surging into his throat, choking him. 

Then Baze touched his hand. It was the softest, gentlest touch, but it was there. He brushed his hand against Chirrut’s, then let it rest there, their little fingers touching, just like they had when perched on the wall those months ago. Zin nuzzled at Shyli, and Chirrut shivered.

Hardly daring to breathe, terrified that he was going to break whatever strange spell had fallen over the room, Chirrut slid his fingers over Baze’s. Baze was tense, his breathing a little too fast, though not from a nightmare now. He didn’t move away. Screwing up his courage, Chirrut pushed his fingers into the gaps between Baze’s, squeezing as tightly as he dared. After a moment that seemed to last hours, Baze squeezed back, and his thumb brushed against the soft skin on the inside of Chirrut’s wrist.

Chirrut had to remind himself to breathe. His heart was hammering so loudly it filled his ears. He let his own thumb stroke Baze’s hand, felt Baze shiver. Chirrut could _feel_ Zin’s warmth against Shyli, could feel Shyli rubbing her head against Zin’s. He felt shaky, like he was standing on the edge of a precipice; the only choice was to turn around and go back, or to jump and hope.

For one of the only times in his life, he had no idea what to say. He wished he could see Baze’s face, though he wasn’t sure that would make him less terrified.

“Chirrut,” Baze whispered, his voice barely audible. “Do you… do you think something bad’s going to happen? To the Temple?” His thumb was still stroking lightly at Chirrut’s wrist.

“I don’t know,” he whispered back. Turned his head on the pillow, as though he might be able to see Baze, but of course there was nothing but darkness. “But if it does, I’ll stop it.”

He felt a shift of weight on the pillow as Baze turned his head. He could feel his warm breath on his cheek. It would be so very easy to move closer, to kiss him. “Course you will,” said Baze, and Chirrut could hear the wry little smile in his voice. “You’re the best fighter in the Temple.”

“Exactly. And you’re the cleverest one. We’ll be the best guardians ever.”

Baze gave one of his soft, rumbly laughs, and Chirrut had to follow it, drawn like Dust to that beautiful, living warmth. 

The kiss was clumsy, not angled right, their noses pressed together, and Baze drew in a sharp hiss of breath. Panic seized Chirrut for a moment, but then he felt Zin nuzzle tentatively at Shyli, and Baze said, “ _Chirrut_ ,” and kissed him again, and again.

* * *

When Baze woke up, he kept his eyes firmly closed. Once he opened them, he’d have to accept that the whole thing had been a dream, a horrible dream designed to worsen this miserable longing he felt. Then Chirrut stirred and elbowed him in the side.

“Ow,” he complained, but he couldn’t stop the disbelieving smile unfurling across his face. Had it been real? He touched his lips, but they didn’t feel any different. Zin was waking up too, and Baze could feel her contentment, something he hadn’t felt properly in months.

“Shutup,” Chirrut grumbled, pressing his face against Baze’s shoulder. “Sleeping.”

Baze opened his eyes. Chirrut was tucked against his side, his short hair sticking up, pillow creases on his face. Warmth seemed to fill Baze from the toes up. “Chirrut,” he said.

“Mmph.” Chirrut stirred, blinking his pale eyes open. He frowned, sharp eyebrows tugging down. “Oh,” he said, sounding confused. Then, “ _Oh_. Um. Hello.”

“Hello.”

Chirrut bit his lip for a moment. The lip that Baze had _kissed_ , warm and slightly chapped and perfect. “Was this… okay?” Chirrut looked uncertain, which was so unlike him.

“Yes,” he said, immediately. It was the same certainty he felt when meditating, that sure, deep knowledge that he was surrounded by Dust, creating Dust. Wasn’t this one of the things that created it? Kissing Chirrut had felt right, in some fundamental way.

Chirrut laughed, a little hysterically. “I’ve wanted to do this for ages.”

Little bubbles of joy were leaping in Baze’s stomach. “Me too.”

“I know we shouldn’t, I know, but I don’t care. I don't _care_ , Baze.” He touched Baze’s face, fingers mapping his features, his too-big smile spreading across his sharp face.

Baze had never dared to believe that Chirrut might feel the same way about him. He had felt almost drunk last night, exhausted and overwrought from fighting his way out of a nightmare. All of his carefully built walls had been crumbling, and he still couldn’t believe he’d dared to pull Chirrut to lie down beside him. That had been all he’d wanted, at that point. For things to be like they were before, when they were kids, when Chirrut had meant warmth and safety and an end to the nightmares. He hadn’t known how to make it like that, hadn’t known how to get past the odd tension between them. Then Chirrut had taken his hand and it was like every feeling he’d pushed down over the last year just flooded to the surface.

Baze kissed him again, and would have continued doing so except for the bell tolling out across the Temple. He groaned, considering skipping breakfast so he could kiss Chirrut some more. Then Chirrut’s stomach growled, louder than an armoured bear.

“Oops,” Chirrut said, grinning. He wriggled his way out of bed. “Come on then, lazy bones. Race you.”

Baze lost. He didn’t care at all.

* * *

The morning was golden, honey-coloured light pouring in through the windows. Everything seemed somehow, indescribably _better_. Baze couldn’t seem to stop himself smiling through breakfast, where the rice porridge was somehow tastier than normal. Even the Magisterium clerics, again sitting with the masters, didn’t seem quite so threatening this morning. Chirrut leaned his knee against Baze’s under the bench. By their feet, Zin and Shyli nuzzled one another contentedly.

It was a good day, though Master Lam told him off for being distracted. Baze didn’t much care. It was difficult _not_ to be distracted when Chirrut was sparring, and he had a distinct feeling that Chirrut was showing off on purpose, flashing quick grins in his vague direction. It was even more difficult not to be distracted when he fought Chirrut, but he didn’t mind at all that he lost spectacularly.

“Keep your focus, Malbus!” Master Lam groused. “You are better than this. _Concentrate_.” 

Behind him, Chirrut smirked, stretching his arms over his head.

Baze had almost forgotten the worry of the previous day, the ominous sense of approaching trouble. That was, until they he and Chirrut were heading down to dinner – late, having spent a few minutes in their room kissing again, which was just as good standing up, and Baze hadn’t quite appreciated how much taller he was until then – and ran right into an argument in the courtyard.

Master Hara had drawn herself up to her full height, her sand fox dæmon baring his teeth. Guardian Tseng, huge and imposing, stood just behind her shoulder. The two clerics stood before them, the tall man looking even more stern and disapproving than before, his hawk dæmon’s feathers ruffled. The old cleric didn’t look so kindly now, his face contorted in something like disgust.

“This is heresy,” he said, his voice full of rage. “Dreadful heresy.”

“That is your view,” snapped Master Hara. “We have been gracious hosts, but now you insult us. You will leave our Temple.”

“The work you are doing here, it is – ungodly. It will be stopped. _Dust_ ,” he spat the word, as though it were some dreadful slur, “is sinful.”

“Dust is life,” said Master Hara, and her dæmon growled low in his throat. “It is knowledge and connection and _life_. If you think that is heresy, then I am sorry for you.”

“You have said your piece, Father,” rumbled Guardian Tseng. “Now you must leave.” He stepped forward. The old cleric looked up at him, as though weighing his words, and then turned on his heel, heading towards the gate.

“Think on this,” said the young cleric, his cold voice supremely measured. “If you come to your senses, forgiveness is always possible.”

“We do not need your forgiveness. I have asked you to leave.”

The tall man inclined his head, a sardonic look on his face, and strode after his companion. 

“I will escort them,” said Guardian Tseng firmly, adjusting his robes. “Come, Jia.” His macaw dæmon took wing with a cry, swooping overhead as Guardian Tseng followed the two clerics.

Master Hara ran a hand down her face with a heavy sigh. When she turned, she caught sight of Chirrut and Baze, both frozen at the bottom of the courtyard steps.

“Boys, you’re late for dinner,” she said firmly. “What are you doing, eavesdropping like this?”

“It was an accident!” Chirrut protested. “We were on our way, and…”

“Be that as it may, you should have been at dinner fifteen minutes ago.”

“Sorry, Master Hara,” said Baze, flushing, a tangle of worry in his stomach. “Master Hara, what did he mean about Dust?”

Her face softened a little. “He is mistaken, Baze. _In our connection to one, all is connected._ ”

“ _This is the truth of Dust, no more, no less_ ,” Baze and Chirrut finished. 

Chirrut’s hand brushed Baze’s, very briefly, and he felt himself steady, like a ship held firm by an anchor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kissing, at least! <3
> 
> I'm not saying that was Kay's dad, but I'm not _not_ saying that, either.
> 
> The opening poem is lightly adapted from Greg Rucka's "Guardians of the Whills" tie-in novel.


End file.
